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HISTORICAL  SKETCHES 


OF 


THE  OLD  PAINTERS. 


BY   THE    AUTHOR   OF 
"  THREE   EXPERIMENTS   OF   LIVING." 


Is  not  then  the  Art 
Godlike,  a  humble  branch  of  the  divine, 
In  visible  quest  of  immortality, 
Suetched  forth  with  trembling  hope  ? 


BOSTON: 
BILLIARD,   GRAY,    AND    CO, 
1838. 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1838, 

by  HiLLtlRD,  Qp.iT  &  Co. 

in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


Printed  bv  William  A.  Hall  &  Co. 


HD 
jso 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


The  following  sketches  are  oifered 
Avithout  pretension  to  a  knowledge  of 
the  fine  arts.  They  are  an  attempt  to 
make  more  graphic  and  real  the  his- 
tory of  men,  whose  names  are  familiar 
to  most  of  us,  and  with  whose  works 
we  are  becoming  more  and  more  ac- 
quainted. 

It  were  well  if  the  thirst  for  amuse- 
ment could  be  partly  satisfied  with 
such  entertainment  as  flows  from  a 
history  of  the  development  and  re- 
wards of  genius,  or  at  least  suflfer  the 
reader  to  draw  a  lesson  from  the  lives 
of  those  who  have  used  or  perverted 
this  noble  gift  of  the  Creator.  The 
path  that  the  author  has  chosen  cannot 
be  a  useless  one,  if  it  lead  to  fountains 
which  refresh  and  invigorate. 


'o' 


1125410 


DE  DICATED 


TO 


WASHINGTON  ALLSTON, 


WITH    THE    FRIENDSHIP  AND    RESPECT 


OF    THE    AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS. 

Page 

Apelles  and  Protogenes,    -----  l 

Cimabue  and  Giotto,    ------  37 

Lionardo  da  Vinci,       ------  50 

Michelangelo  Buonaroti, 76 

Raifaello  Sanzio  D'Urbino,    -     -     -     -  121 

Antonio  Allegri  di  Coreggio,       -     -     -  146 

Giorgionc  and  Tiziano,     -----  177 

The  Three  Caracci,  Lodovico,  Annibale, 

and  Agostino,  with  their  School,  210 

Rubens  and  Vandyke,       -----  253 

Claude  Gelee, -     -  278 


APELLES  AND  PROTOGENES. 


"  Is  Protogenes  at  home  ?  "  inquired  a 
yoimg  man,  as  he  entered  the  painting-room 
of  the  artist. 

"  No,  master,"  rephed  an  old  woman,  who 
was  seated  near  a  pannel  prepared  for  paint- 
ing. —  "No  master ;  he  has  gone  forth  to 
breathe  the  fresh  air  —  and  much  does  he 
need  it  after  toihng  here  all  day.  It  is  his 
custom,  at  the  approach  of  evening,  to  go 
down  to  the  sea-shore,  and  snuff  the  breezes 
that  come  skimming  over  the  water  from  the 
Grecian  Isles." 

"  Is  he  then  so  laborious  ?  "  said  the  stran- 
ger. 

"  Ay,  to  be  sure  he  is.     They  say  he  is 

determined  to  excel  Apelles  of  Cos.     Be  that 

as  it  may,  he  never  thinks   his   pictures  are 

finished  ;  —  but  it  is  no  business  of  mine  — 

1 


'i         APELLES  AND  PROTOGENES. 

else  I  might  say  life  is  too  short,  to  spend 
three  or  four  years  in  lingering,  still  unsatis- 
fied, over  the  same  pictm-e." 

"  Thy  life  does  not  seem  to  have  been  a 
short  one,  mother,"  said  the  stranger,  examin- 
ing the  lines  of  care  and  soitow,  which  had 
strongly  marked  a  face  that  might  once  have 
been  handsonie. 

She  looked  earnestly  at  him  without  re- 
plying. 

"I  have  urgent  business  with  Protogenes," 
said  the  stranger. 

"  Very  well ;  leave  your  name,  and  fix  the 
time  when  you  will  come  again.  You  can- 
not fail  of  finding  him  at  home,  when  the 
sim  gets  above  yonder  loop-hole,  and  that  is 
about  the  tenth  hour  in  the  morning." 

The  stranger  drew  a  small  tablet  from  un- 
der his  robe,  and  seemed  to  be  about  inscrib- 
ing his  name  ;  —  suddenly  he  approached  the 
pannel,  and,  taking  a  pencil,  which  lay  near, 
drew  simply  a  line.  As  he  looked  up,  he 
perceived  the   old  woman   looking   intently 

upon  it. 

"  Look,  mother,"  said  he,  smiling,  "  canst 
thou  read  that  name  ?  " 

She  fixed  on  him  a  steady  look.  "My 
eyes,"  replied  she,  "  are  dim  with  age,  and  I 


APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES.  6 

never  was  taught  your  Greek  letters  ;  but  I 
can  read  thy  face." 

"  And  what  dost  thou  read  there  ?  " 

'"'  That  which  my  master  is  seeking  — ■ 
truth." 

"  Dost  thou  think  I  am  looking  for  it  at 
the  bottom  of  a  well  ? ' '  said  the  stranger, 
smiling. 

"  Ah,"  replied  she,  changing  at  once  her 
air  and  manner,  into  one  of  wild  sublimity  — 
"  thou  art  not  born  to  look  dowti  for  it,  but 
up,  up ! "  and  she  raised  her  hand,  and 
pointed  upwards. 

"  Art  thou  a  soothsayer,  good  mother  ?  " 
said  the  youth,  with  reverence. 

"  Who,"  replied  she,  with  solemnity, 
"  that  has  lived  to  see  the  raven  hair  turn  to 
snow  —  who,  that  has  watched  the  sapling 
as  it  grew  into  the  sturdy  oak,  and  has  be- 
held generation  after  generation  swept  away 
—  who,  that  has  seen  all  this,  and  yet  stands 
blasted  and  alone,  is  not  a  soothsayer  ?  Ay, 
young  master,  age  and  sorrow  have  the  gift 
of  reading  the  future  by  the  sad  past." 

"Thou  canst  number  many  years?  "said 
the  youth,  inquiringly. 

She  shook  her  head.  —  "I  have  outlived 
all  that,"  said  she  —  "I  count  not  by  years. 


4  APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES. 

I  know  not  how  many  times  the  winter  has 
come  round ;  hfe  has  been  one  long  winter 
to  me." 

"  May  I  ask,"  said  the  stranger  with  in- 
creasing interest,  if  you  are  a  Greek?  " 

"  I  am  of  no  nation  —  of  no  country,"  re- 
phed  she,  "  I  was  once  a  Persian." 

The  stranger  at  once  comprehended  that 
she  might  have  been  torn  as  a  captive  from 
her  native  land,  —  for  the  bloody  laurels  of 
Asia  were  yet  fresh  upon  Alexander's  young 
brow  —  and  he  hastily  changed  a  subject, 
which  seemed  to  awaken  such  bitterly  pain- 
ful feelings. 

"  My  errand  to  Rhodes  was  to  see  Proto- 
genes,"  said  he  ;  "I  cannot  depart  without 
an  interview." 

The  old  woman  arose,  and,  going  towai"ds 
the  lattice,  looked  at  the  sun  as  it  was  fast 
sinking  into  the  ocean.  "■  He  will  be  here 
directly,  if  you  will  have  a  brief  patience," 
said  she.  This  information  rather  seemed  to 
hasten  the  youth  away,  for  he  immediately 
disappeared. 

When  Protogenes  returned,  the  old  woman 
said  to  him,  ''  There  has  been  a  stranger 
inquiring  for  the  masterof  the  house." 

"  What  name  did.  ho*,  leave  ?  "  said  Proto- 
genes. 


APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES.  5 

"  That  I  may  not  say,"  replied  she ;  "  but 
he  has  written  it  there." 

Protogenes  drew  near,  and  looked  earnest- 
ly at  the  line  ;  —  suddenly  taking  the  pencil, 
he  drew  another  under  it. 

"  He  is  well  acquainted  with  the  name  of 
Protogenes,"  said  the  woman  —  "it  needs 
not  to  be  written.  He  will  be  here  to- 
morrow at  the  tenth  hour." 

"  I  shall  not  be  at  home  at  that  hour," 
replied  the  master  ;  "  when  he  comes,  show 
him  this,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  second  line. 

The  next  morning,  as  the  old  woman  saw 
Protogenes  go  out,  "  Ah,  well,"  she  exclaim- 
ed, "  how  can  age  calculate  upon  the  caprice 
of  youth  ?  I  could  have  sworn  this  was  an 
hour  he  would  be  at  home." 

Again  the  stranger  made  his  appearance. 
"  It  is  not  my  fault,"  said  she,  "  that  Proto- 
genes seeks  the  morning  air ;  but  he  has 
written  his  name  under  thine." 

The  stranger  stood  before  the  pannel,  and 
gazed  attentively  upon  it.  Then,  seizing 
another  pencil,  he  drew  a  third  line. 

"  Father  Zoroaster  !  "  exclaimed  the  old 
woman,  with  horror,  "  thou  hast  written  thy 
name  in  blood  !  " 

^'  Nay,  good  mother,"  said  the  youth,   "  it 


b  APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES. 

is  written  with  such  a  pencil  as  serves  Proto- 
genes  ;  —  look,  I  found  it  here,  and  here  I 
leave  it." 

The  emotion  of  the  old  woman  subsided. 
"  That  is  true,"  replied  she.  "  I  am  old  and 
failing,  and  sometimes  every  thing  around 
me  seems  written  in  characters  of  blood.  I 
have  seen  that  of  my  country  and  kindred 
flowing  in  rivers !  Well  may  I  shudder, 
even  at  the  sign  of  it." 

"  It  would  seem,"  said  the  stranger,  "  that 
thou  hast  suffered  much." 

"  More  than  I  may  care  to  repeat  to  thee," 
returned  she.  "  Would  that  the  fountains  of 
memory  were  sealed  forever.  My  husband 
—  my  children  —  all  —  all  —  slaughtered  ! 
and  I  left  alone  —  alone !  Stranger,  dost 
thou  understand  that  word — dost  thou  know 
what  it  is  to  be  alone  ?  To  feel  that  thou 
hast  no  kindred  in  this  breathing  world  —  to 
have  the  fountains  of  affection  rushing  back 
upon  thy  own  heart,  and  pressing  upwards 
towards  the  brain  —  to  have  no  living  soul 
with  whom  thou  canst  hold  communion  — 
no  worshipper  of  thy  own  faith  ?  —  this  is 
to  be  alone  !  " 

"  Mcthinks,  good  mother,"  said  the  stran- 
ger,  soothingly,  "  thoii  hast  found  friends. 


APELLES  AND  PKOTOGENES.         7' 

Protogenes  is  said  to  be  gentle  and  hu- 
mane." 

"  Yes,"  replied  she  with  bitterness,  "  I 
have  found  a  home,  among  the  enemies  of 
our  worship,  —  among  those  who  have  burnt 
our  temples  and  murdered  our  priests  !  " 

"  If  I  understand  rightly,  thy  religion,  thy 
God  is  every  where,"  said  the  stranger. 

"  Most  true,"  she  returned  —  "I  ascend 
the  highest  eminence  in  Rhodes,  to  catch  the 
first  glimpse  of  his  rising  beam.  O,  how 
gladly  do  I  behold  him  in  the  far  East !  No, 
they  cannot  hide  his  face  from  the  true  wor- 
shipper. Angels,  who  surround  his  throne, 
and  the  new-born  babe,  are  alike  baptized  in 
his  glorious  rays.  His  beneficence  extends 
over  the  universe  —  and  he  writes  the  great 
lesson  of  universal  love  through  every  na- 
tion ;  for  he  irradiates  even  the  enemies  of 
his  worship.  It  is  a  boast  of  the  people 
of  this  island,  that  never  a  day  passes  that 
he  does  not  shine  down  in  unclouded  bright- 
ness, at  least  for  one  entire  hour,  on  their  fair 
hills  and  valleys." 

"  Tell  me,  mother,  what  may  I  call  thy 
name  ? "  said  the  stranger. 

"  I  tell  thee,  I  have  no  nation  and  no 
name,"  replied  she,  wildly.     "  When  I  was 


8  APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES. 

young,  and  had  smiling  babes  aroirnd  me, 
they  called  me  Zara." 

''  Farewell  !  "  said  the  youth,  as  he  quitted 
the  dwelling. 

Protogenes  returned  immediately  after  his 
visiter  had  departed. 

He  again  approached  the  pannel,  and  ob- 
served the.  new  character  inscribed  there. 

"  It  is  he  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  I  knew  it 
could  be  no  other  !  " 

"  It  is  not  well,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  to 
have  thy  pannel  thus  defaced ; "  and  she 
took  a  piece  of  pumice-stone,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  erasing  the  lines. 

"  Not  for  a  thousand  worlds,"  exclaimed 
the  artist,  motioning  her  away,  while  he 
stood  gazing,  as  if  enraptured,  —  "  It  will  go 
down  to  posterity  !  "  *  "  Woman,  if  all  the 
treasures  of  thine  own  Persepolis,  with  every 
monument  of  Grecian  art  were  heaped  upon 
thee,  thou  couldst  not  purchase  such  a  line 
as  that ;  and  were  the  whole  circle  of  immor- 

*  Pliny,  who  relates  this  story,  says  he  saw  the  fragment 
on  which  were  drawn  these  lines;  that  it  was  consumed  in 
the  fire  that  (Jestroyed  the  Emperor's  palace.  Probably  they 
were  slight  sketches  rather  than  simple  straight  lines.  In 
the  latter  case,  it  would  be  entirely  incomprehensible  to  us; 
■while  how  distinctly  the  glorious  imprint  of  genius  may  be 
stamped  upon  the  mere  combination  of  a  few  simple  aad 
rapid  lines  and  touches,  the  celebrated  etchings  cf  Moritz 
Relsch,  in  our  own  times,  abundantly  attest. 


APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES.  9 

tal  sciences  at  thy  command,  thou  couldst 
not  draw  it !  " 

"  Ay  !  "  said  she,  in  return,  "  a  broader 
and  a  deeper  one  is  drawn  upon  my  heart  by 
a  murderer's  hand  !  " 

"  Dwell  not  on  thy  melancholy  history, 
good  Zara,"  said  the  artist  kindly,  "  it  will 
make  both  thee  and  me  too  sad.  •  But  come, 
if  thou  hast  any  of  the  gifts  of  thy  magic, 
come  and  divine  the  name  of  this  stran- 
ger." 

Zara  slowly  approached  the  pannel.  — 
"  Thou  wilt  not  let  me  rub  it  out  ? "  said 
she,  inquiringly. 

"  Not  for  the  throne  of  Alexander,"  said 
he  ;  "  an  empire  could  not  replace  it." 

"  In  truth,  then,  I  will  read  it  to  thee  — 
Apelles  of  Cos.''^ 

"  Thou  art  indeed  a  very  soothsayer," 
said  Protogenes,  laughing  ;  "  but  perhaps  he 
revealed  to  thee  his  name  ?  " 

"  Thinkest  thou,"  exclaimed  she,  "  that 
the  mind  has  no  knowledge  but  through  the 
outer  senses  ?  My  fathers  worshipped  the 
sky,  the  earth,  the  water,  as  well  as  the 
great  source  of  existence,  the  all-glorious 
Sun.  All  these  have  their  signs  ;  and  think- 
est thou  there  are  no  signs  of  the  spirit,  that 


10  APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES. 

animates  the  man  ?  —  Whom  hast  thou  call- 
ed upon,  even  in  thy  sleep,  but  Apelles  of 
Cos  ?  What  has  stimulated  thee  to  labors 
of  the  pencil  beyond  thy  strength,  but  the 
fame  of  Apelles  ?  —  I  behold  thee  thus  en- 
raptured at  the  tracery  of  these  simple  lines, 
and  thou  sayest  this  name  will  go  down  to 
posterity  ;  —  who  can  have  inscribed  them, 
but  Apelles  of  Cos  ?  " 

"  In  sooth  thou  hast  interpreted  thy  signs 
well,"  said  Protogenes ;  "  and  now,  good 
Zara,  cast  aside  thy  divining  mantle,  and 
prepare  a  repast  for  this  same  glorious  Apel- 
les, while  I  go  and  seek  him." 

Still  he  lingered  and  gazed  at  the  lines,  — 
"  How  delicate  —  yet  how  masterly  !  "  he 
exclaimed.  "No,  I  can  never  attain  such 
perfection  ;  —  but,  wherever  the  name  of 
Apelles  is  known,  this  record  will  go  with 
it  —  and  by  it,  at  least,  shall  the  name  of 
Protogenes  be  united,  by  future  ages,  with 
that  of  Apelles  !  " 

Sauntering  along  the  shore  of  the  beautiful 
harbor  of  Rhodes,  and  casting  his  eye  over 
the  waters  that  laved  the  Grecian  Isles,  Pro- 
togenes found  Apelles.  '"fhe  two  artists 
required  no  introduction  ;  —  they  stood  silent 
for  a  few  moments  ;  —  at  length  Protogenes 
exclaimed  — 


APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES.  11 

"  Noble  Apelles,  I  have  before  read  im- 
mortality in  thy  pencil ;  I  see  it  now  con- 
firmed in  thy  face  !  " 

"  We  are  brothers,"  replied  Apelles,  with 
simplicity  ;  '•'  I  have  come  to  seek  thee  at 
thy  birth-place  of  Roses  —  thy  own  fair 
Rhodes."* 

"  I  perceive,"  said  Protogenes,  with  that 
minuteness  which  marked  his  character,  and 
was  apparent  in  his  paintings,  "  that  thou 
hast  adopted  the  modern  nomenclature  of 
our  island.  For  my  own  part,  I  incline  to 
the  ancient,  and  were  I  a  poet,  of  all  the  doz- 
en from  which  we  have  to  choose,  I  would 
term  it  Asteria." 

*  The  name  Rhodes  is  commonly  derived  from  the  Greek 
word,  rhodon,  signifying  a  rose,  which  flower  is  said  to 
have  bloomed  in  remarkable  profusion  and  beauty  there ; 
and  it  is  alleged  that  the  figure  of  a  rose  is  given  on  the 
reverse  of  many  Rhodian  coins  still  extant.  I  may  at  least 
be  pardoned  for  placing  on  the  lips  of  the  Grecian  painter 
this  more  poetic  version  of  the  origin  of  the  name,  notwith- 
standing the  labors  of  modern  learning  to  destroy  its  long- 
received  aitthority,  and  to  substitute  the  far  less  agreeable 
etymology  from  a  Phenician  word,  signifying  a  serpent. 
Alas  for  the  vanity  and  vexation  of  that  coldly  unimagina- 
tive spirit  of  sceptical  research  and  analysis  of  our  day ; 
which,  not  satisfied  with  the  domain  of  the  present  and  the 
future,  is  ever  seeking  also  to  strip  every  romantic  legend 
and  poetic  tradition  from  the  past,  of  the  beautiful,  even 
though  deceptive,  hues  which  it  is  so  pleasant  for  the 
fancy's  unlearned  eye  to  dwell  upon  ! 


12  APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES. 

"  And  why  ?  "  said  Apelles,  smiling.  "  Be- 
cause," returned  Protogenes,  "  it  is  formed 
like  the  Asteria."  * 

"  I  know  not  Avhat  its  ancient  name  may 
have  been,"  replied  Apelles ;  "  but,  while 
I  behold  these  beautiful  roses  entwining 
around  every  portico  and  column,  I  can'  only 
think  of  the  sweet  name  familiar  to  me.  I 
agree  with  thee,  however,  that  it  is  a  bright 
gem  on  the  bosom  of  our  fair  isle-studded 
sea." 

"  How  does  it  compare  with  thy  native 
Cos  ?  "  said  Protogenes,  as  they  walked, 
arm  in  arm,  back  to  his  dwelling. 

"  Thou  knowest,"  replied  Apelles,  "  that 
island  is  small,  compared  to  this  —  though  it 
has  the  honor  of  being  mentioned  by  Ho- 
mer ;  —  its  soil  is  excellent,  and  it  is  shelter- 
ed from  the  winds  by  high  mountains.  It 
is  subject  to  earthquakes,  and  we  tremble  lest 
it  should  one  day  be  destroyed.  But  the 
glory  of  Cos  is  the  temple  of  ^sculapius, 
which  is  daily  filled  with  offerings  from 
those  who  have  been  restored  by  the  heal- 
ing art,  or  by  those  who  are  still   seeking 

aid." 

"  I  have  heard  niuch  of  the  fame  of  your 


A  beautiful  polished  gem,  resembling  the  opal. 


APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES,  13 

Hippocrates,"  said  Protogenes.  "  Hast  thou 
ever  thyself  beheld  him,  or  was  his  departure 
from  this  upper-light  before  thy  childhood's 
years  were  sufficiently  advanced  to  know 
and  note   the  venerable   sage  ?  " 

"  Indeed  do  I  remember  him  well,"  replied 
Apelles  ;  ''  though  the  recollection  of  his  sil- 
very locks,  whitened  by  more  than  a  hun- 
dred winters  —  his  noble  brow  —  the  beau- 
tiful benignity  of  his  countenance,  and  the 
undimmed  cheerfulness  of  his  disposition  — 
attesting  well  the  excellence  of  his  system 
for  the  preservation  of  health  —  form  one  of 
the  earliest,  as  well  as  strongest,  images  im- 
pressed on  my  memory.  He  has  formed  a 
new  school,  adopting  what  was  excellent  in 
his  great  predecessors,  and  adding  to  it  from 
the  inexhaustible  stores  of  his  own  mind, 
which  was  continually  engaged  in  useful  dis- 
coveries. He  received  from  his  father  He- 
raclides  the  elements  of  the  sciences,  and 
soon  became  convinced  that,  to  comprehend 
particular  diseases,  it  was  necessary  to  under- 
stand the  general  principles  that  govern  all 
nature.  His  great  principle  is  to  assist  past 
experience  by  extensive  observation,  and  to 
rectify  theory  by  practice.  I  use  his  own 
words.       Our   most    enlightened    men,   and 


14  APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES. 

those  who  understand  his  superiority  by 
their  own  merit,  pronounce  him  the  first  of 
human  beings,  and  are  convinced  that  his 
system  will  be  life  and  health  to  poster- 
ity." 

"  If  this  conviction  prove  true,"  replied 
Protogenes,  "  the  little  island  of  Cos  Mero- 
pis,  —  the  name  by  which,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  it  is  spoken  of  by  Homer  —  is  more 
favored  by  the  production  of  a  man  who  has 
thus  served  the  cause  of  humanity,  than 
Macedonia,  as  the  birth-place  of  Alexan- 
der." 

In  such  conversation,  the  friends  continu- 
ed until  they  reached  the  dwelling  of  Pro- 
togenes. It  was  a  humble  but  sweet  abode, 
where  every  thing  seemed  to  indicate  ex- 
treme poverty,  though  ennobled  by  refine- 
ment and  taste,  and  by  that  indescribable 
spirit  of  intellectual  superiority  over  the  poor 
trifles  of  this  world's  wealth.  On  entering, 
they  found  Zara  had  prepared  an  entertain- 
ment of  figs,  grapes  and  dates,  with  such 
other  fruits  as  the  climate  produced,  all  or- 
namented with  flagrant  and  blooming  roses. 

No  other  ornament  was  attempted  in  the 
humble  apartment,  but  a  single  picture  sus- 
pended on  the  wall.     It  represented  a  hound, 


APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES.  15 

panting  with  the  fatigues  of  the  chase.  It 
was  immediately  observed,  and  its  rare  merit 
generously  appreciated  by  Apelles. 

"  That  hound  is  indeed  an  inimitable  pro- 
duction of  thy  pencil,  —  for  I  cannot  mistake 
it  for  that  of  any  other.  The  gleam  of  his 
eye  seems  almost  to  flash  a  ray  forth  from 
the  picture,  and  the  deep  panting  of  his  broad 
chest  might  seem  almost  to  swell  and  sink 
from  the  surface  of  the  canvass,  as  I  gaze 
upon  it.  But  especially  that  foam  about  the 
mouth,  and  fleckering  his  chest,  appears  to 
me  the  last  perfection  of  art,  in  the  imitation 
of  natiu"e." 

'•  That  picture  hangs  there,  devoted  to  the 
goddess  Fortune,"  replied  the  host ;  "  since 
to  her  is  chiefly  due  the  merit  which  thou 
honorest  with  praise,  so  flattering  from  thy 
lips,  I  had  exhausted  upon  it  all  my  poor 
art,  and  longer  labor  than  I  care  to  tell,  and 
the  body  of  the  dog  may  perhaps,  indeed,  be 
entitled  to  the  credit  of  minute  accuracy  ;  — 
it  is  the  portrait  of  an  old  favorite,  once  the 
sole  companion  of  my  rambles  by  the  shore, 
as  he  was  the  sole  friend  of  my  poverty. 
But  upon  the  mouth  I  had  expended  all  in 
vain  —  and  at  last  gave  it  up  in  despair,  and, 
in    the    rage   of    the   moment,    dashed   my 


16  APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES. 

sponge  upon  it,  with  perhaps  an  impious  ex- 
clamation against  my  hard  fortune,  —  when, 
behold,  that  random  and  desperate  stroke 
scattered  my  colors  as  thou  seest  there,  and 
produced  the  crowning  result  to  which  I 
confess  my  own  skill  was  inadequate.  Thou 
wilt  not,  therefore,  wonder  that  I  prize  the 
picture  as  something  more  than  a  curiosity, 
nor  impute  to  an  idle  vanity  the  conspicuous 
position  in  which  it  is  placed.  And  who 
shall  question  the  omnipotence,  in  all  human 
affairs,  of  the  divinity  to  whom,  as  almost  a 
miracle  of  her  own,  I  hold  it  sacred  ?  " 

"  Who  shall,  indeed  ? "  rejoined  Apelles. 
"  Least  of  all,  shall  I  dispute  her  claims 
to  our  adoration,  time-hallowed  as  they  are  ; 
especially  when  I  behold,  in  the  career  of  my 
magnificent  patron,  the  glorious  Alexander  — 
who  might  well  be  termed  her  spoiled  child 
—  so  signal  an  evidence  of  her  power  over 
empires  and  millions,  as  well  as  over  the 
humble  details  of  our  every-day  life.  I  per- 
ceive that  our  good  mother,"  he  continued 
pleasantly,  "  though  not  by  nativity,  is,  at 
least  by  nature,  a  daughter  of  your  Isle  of 
Roses,"  glancing,  as  he  spoke,  at  the  rich 
profusion  with  which  the  table  was  covered, 
and  alluding  to  their  former  conversation. 


APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES.  17 

Zara  was  just  quitting  the  apartment,  but 
she  turned  round  and  said,  emphatically, 
''No,  I  was  once  a  Pei'sian.'^ 

"  Touch  not  that  string,"  exclaimed  Pro- 
togenes,  in  a  low  voice.  "There  are  sub- 
jects upon  which  her  mind  is  unsettled,  and 
she  imagines  herself,  like  the  Oracle  of  Del- 
phi, inspired.'^ 

She  evidently  overheard  the  observation  ; 
for  she  exclaimed  with  solemnity,  "  Affliction 
brings  us  near  to  the  gods  !  " 

"  Leave  us,  good  mother,"  said  Proto- 
genes  ;  and  Zara  departed. 

"  She  is  a  Persian,  as  she  says,"  continued 
the  artist,  "  and  a  devout  worshipper  of  na- 
ture— the  principle  of  which  she  believes  to 
be  fire,  elicited  from  the  sun  ;  but,  like  the 
rest  of  the  Persians,  her  religion  is  strangely 
mixed   up   with   wild    oriental   fancies.       If 
thou   wilt  take  the  trouble  to  climb  yonder 
hill  before   the   day  break   to-morrow,  thou 
mayst  witness  her  morning  soobh,  (morning 
prayer  ;)  for  there  is  her  worship  performed." 
After  they  had  concluded  their  simple  re- 
past, they  repaired  to  the  study  of  the  artist. 
"  I  part  with  thee  no  more,"  said  Protogenes, 
"  while  thy  foot  rests  on  our  Asteria." 

Tlicre  the  artists  enjoyed  that  communion 
2 


18  APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES. 

which  belongs  to  the  truly  great  and  good. 
No  base  envy  mingled  with  the  admiration 
they  felt  for  each  other.  Apelles  was  eager 
to  point  out  wherein  Protogenes  excelled 
him  ;  but  frankly  told  him  that  in  one  re- 
spect he  was  his  inferior  —  that  of  not 
knowing  when  to  take  his  hand  from  his 
jmintings. 

"  The  touches  of  true  genius,"  said  Apel- 
les "  are  never  elaborate.  Many  a  noble 
painting  is  spoiled  by  being  overworked." 

The  next  morning,  Apelles  remembered 
Zara's  place  of  worship,  where  rose  the  tem- 
ple of  Minerva,  and  long  before  the  light 
dawned,  he  was  seated  on  the  steps  of  the 
temple.  In  a  few  moments  he  perceived  her 
coming.  She  was  dressed  in  the  costume  of 
her  country  —  a  large  shawl  like  a  turban, 
on  her  head,  and  a  short  loose  garment  like  a 
shirt,  a  vest  girt  with  a  sash,  and  sandals  on 
her  feet.  She  ascended  the  hill  with  a  slow, 
languid  step  ;  yet  her  air  was  still  noble  and 
commanding. 

Apelles  went  forward  to  assist  her.  "  The 
animating  principle  is  faint  within  me,"  said 
she  ;  "it  will  be  kindled  when  the  God  of 
Day  arises."  Slowly  they  walked  forward 
to  the  summit  of  the  mountain.     When  they 


APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES.  19 

reached   the  top,    Zara   turned   towards  the 
east,  and  bowed  three  times  to  the  ground. 

The  beautiful  Grecian  temple  stood  below, 
with  its  simple  colums  of  white  marble ;  and 
lower  down  were   interspersed   doric   build- 
ings,  palaces   with  their  superb  colonnades, 
and   splendid   facades.       Beyond    these,    the 
quay   spread    into   the   broad   ocean,    whose 
waves    rolled    heavily    towards    the    shore. 
The   celebrated  Colossus,  now  always  asso- 
ciated with  the  name  of  the  island,  was  not 
yet  in  existence,  though  it  was  erected  but  a 
few  years  afterwards.     Nothing  was  in  mo- 
tion  but  the   slight   morning  breeze,  whose 
cool  freshness  scarce  displaced  a  single  lock 
of  the  long  flowing  cmls  of  the  young  man, 
and  the  never-resting  billows,  whose  hollow 
voices  were  borne  only  faintly  and  at  inter- 
vals up  to  the  height  at  which  they  stood 
together. 

How  deep  and  solemn  seemed  the  repose 
of  nature  !  Suddenly  the  worshipper,  in  a 
clear,  musical  voice,  began  her  morning 
hymn.  At  first  the  chant  was  low  and  in- 
distinct ;  at  length  she  broke  forth  in  a  wild 
and  triumphant  strain,  her  voice  gathering 
fulness  as  she  proceeded. 


20        APELLES  AND  PROTOGENES. 


THE  HYMN  OF  THE  FIRE  WORSHIPPER. 

Valley  and  hill, 

Forest  and  mount, 
Ocean  and  rill, 

River  and  fount. 

Awake !    Awake ! 

He  comes,  the  God 

Of  the  streaming  ray ! 
With  his  glance  to  chase 

The  clouds  away  — 

They  break !    They  break  I 

Lo,  how  they  flame 

In  the  eastern  sky, 
As  they  feel  and  shrink 

From  that  burning  eye. 

That  Eye  !     That  Eye ! 

As  a  routed  host. 

All  wildly  rolled. 
Scattered  and  tossed, 
In  their  robes  of  gold. 

They  fly  !    They  fly  ! 

Ocean  and  land 

The  prean  sing. 
With  the  angel-band,* 

Round  the  Fire-King  — 

His  throne  !    His  throne  ! 

Lo,  from  the  deep 
Abyss  of  night, 


*  Goethe,  in  describing  the  worship  of  the  ancient  Persians, 
says,  "  dort  glaiibten  sie  den  Thron  Goltcs,  von  Engeln 
umfunkelt,  zu  erblicken." 


APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES.  21 

The  first  warm  beam 
Of  his  radiant  might ! 

The  Sun  !     The  Sun ! 

That  ray  divine 

We  low  adore ; 
Thrice  thus  to  earth, 

Its  path  before, 

I  kneel !     I  kneel ! 

Our  life  burned  low. 
Through  the  night's  dark  hour; 
But  the  glorious  glow, 
And  the  quick'ning  power, 
I  feel!    I  feel! 

As  her  voice  attained  its  highest  pitch, 
the  sun  rose  in  majestic  splendor  from  the 
ocean. 

Thrice  Zara  prostrated  herself  before  the 
globe  of  fire,  uttering  low  and  unintelligible 
sounds.  Then  tmiiing  to  Apelles,  she  said, 
"  My  morning  worship  is  over  ;  let  us  re- 
turn." With  a  celerity  wholly  incompatible 
with  her  apparent  age,  she  descended  the 
hill.  Apelles  did  not  immediately  follow ; 
he  watched  her  rapid  progress,  the  free  use 
of  her  limbs,  the  seeming  elastic  vigor  of  her 
motion,  and  he  said,  "  The  divinity  stirs 
within  her  !  I  too  should  be  almost  tempted 
to  become  a  Fire-worshipper,  had  not  the 
philosophy  of  the  sages  taught  me  that  he 


22  APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES. 

who  created  the  glorious  sun  must  be  greater 
than  the  sun  itself." 

While  he  stood  gazing,  the  rays  of  the 
splendid  luminary  had  marked  its  golden 
path  across  the  ocean,  and  were  burnishing 
the  towers,  hill-tops  and  woods.  The  nu- 
merous vessels,  which  lay  apparently  sleep- 
ing in  the  harbor,  were,  one  after  another,  in 
motion.  The  Greeks  came  forth  from  their 
dwellings,  and  all  was  like  the  renewal  of 
life.  Slowly  Apelles  descended  the  hill. 
When  he  reached  the  house  of  his  friend,  he 
found  he  had  just  arisen.  Zara  had  thrown 
aside  her  Persian  robes,  and,  with  them,  her 
enthusiastic  manner,  which  was  only  occa- 
sionally roused,  and  assumed  the  usual  dress 
of  the  Greek  women  of  her  age  and  situa- 
tion. 

It  was  soon  rumored  in  Rhodes  that  Apel- 
les was  there  ;  and  the  inhabitants  of  rank 
and  high  birth,  as  well  as  the  lower  classes 
of  citizens,  all  assembled  to  pay  honor  to  the 
favorite  of  Alexander,  and  the  most  famous 
painter  of  the  age, — for  by  both  titles  was 
he  already  distinguished. 

Protogenes,  while  he  allowed  the  trans- 
cendent merit  of  Apelles,  felt  hurt  that  his 
own  paintings  had  excited  so  little  applause. 


APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES. 


23 


A.pelles  perceived  liis  emotion,  and  said,  "  It 
is  not  Apelles  the  painter,  they  honor,  but 
Apelles  the  friend  of  Alexander." 

He  mixed  famiharly  with  the  Rhodians, 
and  strove  to  make  them  understand  the  real 
excellence  of  his  friend's  pictures,  at  the 
same  time  admitting  that  he  injured  them  by 
overworking. 

••  I  perfectly  agree  with  you,"  said  a  con- 
ceited young  artist.  '•'  I  have  always  avoid- 
ed this  elaborate  style.  I  like  a  quick  and 
rapid  touch.  Pray  do  me  the  favor  to 
come  with  mc  to  my  study."  Apelles,  with 
his  usual  courtesy,  accompanied  him.  He 
had  just  completed  a  large  gaudy  picture. 
"  This,"  said  the  painter,  "  I  consider  an 
original ;  the  style  and  manner  are  wholly 
my  own."  Apelles  was  silent,  and  the 
young  man  began  to  imagine  he  was  struck 
dumb  with  admiration.  ''  I  completed  this," 
said  he,  '■  in  one  month,  I  do  assure  you, 
and  I  can  bring  vouchers  for  it." 

"  There  needs  none,"  replied  Apelles  ;  "  I 
should  think  you  might  have  painted  many 
more  such  in  that  time." 

The  false  taste  which  prevailed  among  the 
Rhodians  was  one  reason  why  they  under- 
rated the   severe  and   accurate    paintings   of 


24  APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES. 

Protogenes.  He  used  only  four  different 
colors,  and  they  preferred  the  works  of 
Anaxis,  an  ordinary  painter,  who  made  much 
more  showy  pictures. 

Inflated  with  undeserved  admiration,  he 
affected  to  look  with  contempt  on  the  pic- 
tures of  Protogenes  ;  the  decided  manner  and 
pedantic  terms  of  art  which  he  used,  were 
calculated  to  impose  on  the  ignorant.  He  had 
exerted  all  his  skill  to  complete  a  Helen  that 
he  was  painting,  before  Apelles  took  his  de- 
parture. He  had  probably  outdone  himself; 
for  he  had  loaded  her  not  only  with  jewels, 
but  with  gilding.  "  What  do  you  think  of 
my  Helen  ?  "  said  the  artist,  with  a  self-satis- 
fied air.  "  I  think,"  replied  Apelles,  "  If  you 
have  not  made  her  beautiful,  you  have  at 
least  made  her  rich." 

A  few  days  before  Apelles  was  to  take  his 
departiu'e  from  Rhodes,  it  was  understood 
that  he  would  offer  a  picture  for  sale  at  one 
of  the  public  halls.  It  was  called  lalysus, 
and  the  name  is  all  that  remains  of  it  to 
posterity. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  enthusiasm  that 
prevailed  ;  every  wealthy  citizen  was  eager 
to  possess  it,  and  they  were  all  ready  to  out- 
bid   each    other,    to    the    most   extravagant 


APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES.  25 

amounts.  Apelles  was  beloved  for  the  ur- 
banity of  his  manner,  his  graceful  and  easy- 
conversation  ;  and  the  Rhodians  were  daz- 
zled by  the  high  honors  conferred  on  him  by 
Alexander.  The  picture  was  exhibited,  and 
they  were  enchanted  with  it :  so  great  was 
the  contest,  that  at  length  it  was  decided, 
that  it  should  be  pm-chased  by  the  communi- 
ty, and  retained  as  public  property.  When  a 
sum  was  offered,  adequate  to  what  Apelles 
conceived  was  its  value,  he  said,  "It  is  but 
justice  to  Protogenes  to  inform  you  that  this 
picture  is  painted  by  him."  A  general  mur- 
mur was  heard.  "It  is  the  painting  of  Apel- 
les that  we  want  —  we  will  not  have  it." 

"  Be  it  so,"  said  Apelles  ;  "  I  take  you  at 
your  word,  and  purchase  this  picture  for 
Alexander,  who  commissioned  me  to  secure 
for  him  one  of  the  artist's,  whose  greatness  is 
known  abroad,  though  it  be  not  appreciated 
at  home.  But  I  have  the  honor  of  Rhodes 
so  much  at  heart,  that  I  would  willingly 
have  allowed  this  to  remain  here,  to  prove 
that  it  possesses  one  who,  in  many  respects, 
is  the  greatest  painter  in  the  world." 

When  they  found  that  Alexander  was  to 
be  the  purchaser,  the  picture  rose  tenfold  in 
value,  and  they  claimed  it  as  a  right. 


26  APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES. 

Apelles  took  much  pains  to  point  out  to 
them  the  beauty  of  the  paintings  of  Pro- 
togenes,  and  to  give  them  just  notions  of  the 
noble  art. 

All  this  produced  its  effect.  Protog«nes 
was  now  solicited  to  furnish  them  with  an- 
other picture  at  the  same  price  as  the  former 
one,  and  applications  poured  in  upon  him. 
He  saw  wealth  and  honor  before  him. 
"  How  much  gratitude  I  owe  you  !  "  —  said 
he  to  his  friend. 

''  You  must  not  attribute  what  I  have 
done,"  said  Apelles,  "  to  my  friendship  for 
Protogenes,  but  to  my  reverence  for  the  art. 
At  Cos  I  beheld  one  of  your  pictures,  and  it 
filled  me  with  admiration  :  when  I  inquired 
for  the  artist,  I  was  told  that  he  lived  at 
Rhodes,  poor  and  unknown,  and  I  resolved 
to  visit  you.  I  was  astonished  to  find,  that, 
in  this  state  of  the  arts,  the  tinsel  of  common 
painters  could  be  preferred  to  such  just  and 
noble  execution  as  yours.  The  favor  of  Al- 
exander has  given  me  importance  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world.  This  favor  I  would  make  a 
means  of  usefulness,  and  for  this  purpose  I 
came  to  Rhodes  with  the  hope  of  ennobling 
my  profession.  The  true  essence  of  great- 
ness and  success  consists  in  disinterested  de- 


APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES.  27 

votion  to  that  to  which  one  apphes  himself. 
Let  us  aim  at  truth  and  excellence,  and  com- 
mit the  care  of  our  fame  to  posterity.  To- 
morrow I  quit  you,  but  I  leave  you  with  the 
gods,  who  are  the  friends  of  the  virtuous." 

"  Both  the  origin  and  progress  of  our  art,'"' 
said  Protogenes,  "  is  worthy  the  exercise  of 
human  thought.  I  have  sometimes  believed 
it  must  have  come  by  divine  inspiration." 

"  You  are  undoubtedly  right,"  replied 
Apelles  ;  "  all  that  partakes  of  the  divine, 
comes  by  inspiration  :  but  probably  the  first 
mechanical  attempts  little  resembled  the  art 
as  it  is  now.  The  earliest  accounts  of  it  are 
during  the  reign  of  Ninus  and  Semiramis, 
king  and  queen  of  Assyria  :  about  two  thou- 
sand years  ago,  we  are  told  that  Semiramis 
threw  a  bridge  over  the  Euphrates,  and 
erected  a  castle  at  each  end,  the  walls  of 
which  were  painted  not  only  with  single 
figures  and  animals,  but,  on  one  side,  with  a 
hunting-piece,  where  the  queen  was  repre- 
sented throwing  her  dart  at  a  panther,  and 
near  her  Ninus  striking  a  lion  to  the  earth 
with  his  spear.  There  is  mention  made  of 
painting  in  Egypt  too,  about  the  same  time  ; 
but  sculpture  in  both  countries  was  more 
assiduously   cultivated,    as   serving   religious 


28  APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES. 

purposes  better.  But  they  certainly  arrived 
at  no  great  perfection,  as  they  made  no  pro- 
gress for  one  thousand  years.  It  is  not  for 
us,  however,  to  depreciate  their  attempts, 
since  it  is  to  Egypt  that  we  owe  the  intro- 
duction of  both  the  arts  into  Greece." 

"  It  does  not  appear,"  said  Protogenes, 
"  that  painting  had  been  introduced  in  the 
time  of  Homer  —  he  makes  no  mention 
of  it." 

"  I  grant  you,"  rephed  Apelles,  "  that  the 
mechanical  art  had  not  been  introduced  ;  but 
the  inspiration  was  there.  Who  was  ever  a 
greater  painter  than  Homer  ?  Take  the 
meeting  between  Hector  and  Andromache, 
—  the  description  of  the  terror  of  the  child  at 
the  nodding  plumes  and  glittering  crest." 

"  But  this  is  poetry." 

"  True  ;  and  painting  is  poetry.  A  painter 
di'aws  first  in  his  own  mind  the  image  he 
would  represent  on  his  tablet." 

"  What  do  you  suppose,"  said  Protogenes, 
"  were  the  subjects  of  the  embroideries  of 
Andromache,,  Helen  and  Penelope  ?  Think 
you,  Helen,  with  her  beautiful  figures  and 
many-colored  threads,  did  not  preserve  a 
stolen  portrait  of  Paris  ?" 

"  I  perceive,"   replied   Apelles,  "  you   are 


APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES.  29 

drawing  pictures  from  Homer.  But  Zeuxis 
was  the  first  who  designed  them  mechanic- 
ally.    From  the  poet  he  drew  his  heroes." 

"It  was  Zeuxis,  I  think,"  said  Protogenes, 
"  who  painted  the  grapes  so  natm-ally  that 
the  birds  came  and  pecked  at  them." 

"  Yes,  replied  Apelles,  and  when  Phar- 
rasius,  the  rival  artist,  produced  his  picture, 
you  know  they  asked  him  to  withdraw  the 
curtain  —  which  proved  to  be  the  painting 
itself.  The  magnanimity  of  Zeuxis  always 
pleased  me  more  than  his  skill.  He  ac- 
knowledged himself  surpassed,  since  he  had 
only  deceived  birds,  but  Pharrasius  men." 

"  It  has  always  appeared  to  me,  however," 
said  Protogenes,  "  that  he  rather  despised  the 
judgment  of  the  public  ;  for,  after  they  had 
applauded  his  picture  of  the  boy  carrying  the 
basket  of  fruit  at  which  the  birds  came  and 
pecked,  he  said,  '  Had  the  boy  been  as  well 
painted  as  the  fruit,  they  would  not  have 
dared  to  touch  it.'  " 

"  The  merry  old  fellow  laughed  himself  to 
death  at  a  portrait  he  had  drawn  of  an  old 
woman,"  said  Apelles.  "  But  this  is  the 
mere  gossip  of  painting  ;  we  may  draw  use- 
ful lessons  from  the  excessive  vanity  of 
artists.     Zeuxis  was  weak  enough    to  have 


30  APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES. 

his  name  embroidered  in  letters  of  gold  upon 
the  border  of  his  robe,  when  he  appeared  at 
the  Olympic  games  ;  and  Pharrasius  wore  a 
tunic  of  royal  purple,  and  a  golden  gar- 
land, and  declared  himself  descended  from 
Apollo." 

As  they  spoke,  they  had,  arm  in  arm, 
wandered  towards  the  high  parts  of  the  city, 
which  overlooked  the  sea.  Here  they  first 
observed  that  dark  heavy  clouds  were  rolling 
towards  them,  and  the  winds  seemed  rushing 
on  like  a  tornado  :  while  they  gazed,  they 
beheld  Zara  at  a  distance.  Her  appearance 
was  striking  ;  she  Avas  clad  in  her  Persian 
costume,  but  her  head  was  bare,  and  her 
long  white  locks  streamed  in  the  wind  ;  her 
vest  was  thrown  open  and  her  whole  air  was 
that  of  a  maniac. 

On  seeng  her,  Protogenes  exclaimed,  "  See 
yonder  our  good  mother  !  she  has  on  her 
divining  mantle  ;  she  is  ever  unsettled  Avhen 
the  clouds  look  black  and  threatening." 
"  No  wonder,"  replied  Apelles ;  "  they  ob- 
scure her  divinity."  At  that  moment  the 
thunder  burst  in  loud  peals.  "  She  docs  not, 
like  us,"  continued  the  artist,  "  see  him  in 
the  clouds,  and  hear  his  voice  in  the  thun- 
der."    They  hastened  towards  her.     When 


APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES.  31 

she  saw  them  approach,  she  exclaimed,  "  Get 
ye  to  the  high  mountains ;  wo  and  desolation 
is  over  the  city.  The  waters  of  heaven  are 
let  loose  !  wo  !  wo  !  "  —  "  Good  Zara,"  said 
Protogenes,  "  hie  thee  home,  the  storm  is 
coming."  "  Yes,  it  is  coming,"  she  exclaim- 
ed, "I  hear  its  voice  ;  it  mingles  with  the 
dashing  of  the  seas  of  blood  !  "  In  vain  they 
tried  to  arrest  her  ;  she  rushed  through  the 
streets,  crying  "  Wo !  wo !  my  hour  is 
come  ! " 

Suddenly  the  clouds  seemed  to  be  rent 
asunder  ;  toiTents  of  rain  and  hail  descended ; 
the  wind  swept  along  with  frightful  fury  ; 
they  distinguished  the  crashing  of  timber 
and  the  shrielcs  of  human  voices  ;  the  friends 
flung  themselves  prostrate  upon  the  earth, 
and  clung  to  each  other.  In  a  short  time  all 
the  lower  part  of  the  city,  which  was  built  in 
the  form  of  an  amphitheatre,  was  inundated  ; 
the  pipes,  which  would  have  conducted  the 
water  to  the  ocean,  had  been  neglected,  and 
were  closed  up ;  thousands  were  drowned 
before  they  could  reach  the  higher  ground. 
All  at  once,  the  walls  burst,  and  the  waters 
rushed  towards  the  ocean,  bearing  with  them 
hundreds  of  dead  and  living  bodies.  The 
clouds  seemed  to  have  exhausted  their  fury. 


32  APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES. 

and  the  whirlwind  subsided.  The  friends 
looked  down  on  the  desolation  below.  The 
lower  part  of  the  city  was  in  ruins,  —  houses 
destroyed,  and  the  noblest  specimens  of  the 
arts  laid  prostrate.  The  dwelling  of  Proto- 
genes  had  escaped  destruction  :  they  repaired 
to  it ;  Zara  was  not  there  ;  they  sought  her 
in  vain  ;  and,  as  her  'remains  could  not  be 
found,  they  concluded  she  had  been  swept 
into  the  waters  of  the  ocean. 

Apelles  remained  with  his  friend  till  the 
first  consternation  was  over,  and  then  sailed 
for  Cos.  Here  he  did  not  long  continue  ; 
but  was  summoned  to  Macedonia,  to  take  the 
portrait  of  his  royal  master.  Apelles  selected 
the  moment  when  the  Emperor  was  reining 
in  his  noble  and  fiery  steed  Bucephalus, 
whom  the  monarch  boasted  no  one  had  ever 
mounted  but  himself.  Alexander  was  not 
perfectly  satisfied  with  the  horse.  Apelles 
requested  that  Bucephalus  might  be  brought, 
that  he  might  be  compared  with  his  repre- 
sentative. So  soon  as  Bucephalus  beheld 
the  painting,  he  neighed  loudly  to  it.  "  O 
King,"  said  the  painter,  "your  horse  is  a 
better  judge  of  painting  than  yoiu-self." 

The  observation  of  Apelles,  which  after- 
wards became  a  proverb,  has  often  been  re- 


APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES. 


33 


lated,  in  connexion  with  the  criticism  of  the 
shoe-maker  upon  a  sandal,  in  one  of  the  art- 
ist's paintings.  The  cobbler  said  it  was  in- 
correct in  form,  and  gave  his  reasons.  Apel- 
les  admitted  their  justice,  and  thanked  him 
for  his  remarks.  Elated  with  his  success, 
the  shoe-maker  proceeded  to  criticise  the  leg 
— "  Keep  to  your  trade,"  said  Apelles, 
"■  yom-  judgment  goes  no  higher  than  the 
sandal." 

One  of  the  most  celebrated  pictures  of 
Apelles,  was  of  Venus  rising  from  the  ocean. 
It  was  placed  in  the  temple  of  Diana,  at 
Ephesus.  Of  the  inscription  on  this  painting 
the  following  translation  will  convey  an  im- 
perfect idea :  — 

The  waves  divide,  and  from  the  foaming  ocean 
Fair  Venus  starts  at  once  to  life  and  motion ! 
With  roseate  hand  her  humid  locks  she  rings, 
And  from  her  tresses  many  a  dew-drop  springs. 
While  gazing  at  the  beauteous  vision  there, 
Her  rival  sisters  own  themselves  less  fair ; 
Yet  cry,  tenacious  still  of  beauty's  field, 
"  'T  is  to  Apelles  we  the  apple  yield." 

Another    celebrated  picture  was    the   por- 
trait of  Alexander,  with   a   thunder-bolt    in 
his   hand.     It   was   so   perfectly   done,  that 
the   hand  seemed  to  be  thrust  forth  from  the 
3 


34  APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES. 

picture,  yet  firmly  grasping  the  thunder-bolt  ; 
which  gave  rise  to  the  following  lines  :  — 

We  own,  great  Jupiter,  thy  power  divine  ; 
To  hurl  the  avenging  thunder-bolt,  is  thine ! 
But  Alexander,  whom  Apelles  moulds, 
In  his  right  hand  the  avenging  thunder  holds. 

This  portrait  so  entirely  satisfied  the 
monarch,  that  he  issued  a  decree  forbidding 
any  other  artist  to  attempt  his  portrait. 

Perhaps  it  was  his  success  in  this  picture 
that  led  Alexander  to  request  Apelles  to  take 
a  likeness  of  one  of  the  distinguished  beau- 
ties of  his  court,  Campaspe,  a  young  slave,  of 
whose  charms  the  ardent  young  monarch 
was  passionately  enamored.  Apelles  was 
unwilling  to  refuse,  and  the  young  girl  con- 
sented to  sit  for  her  picture.  Day  after  day 
she  came,  and  the  artist  apparently  made  but 
little  progress  in  his  work.  He  was  aware 
that  she  was  destined  to  grace  the  court  of 
the  monarch.  At  length,  as  she  one  day  sat 
before  him,  he  threw  down  his  pallet,  and 
found  himself  at  her  feet.  Campaspe  quick- 
ly dropped  her  veil,  and  retired  without  a 
word  ;  from  this  time  she  appeared  at  the 
painter's  room  no  more.  Alexander  remark- 
ed  that  Apelles  was   silent   and   abstracted. 


APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES.  35 

He  one   day  inquired  why  there  was   such 
delay  with  the  picture  of  Campaspe. 

"  Great  king,"  rephed  Apelles,  "  wonder  not 
that  the  beauty  which  has  moved  the  con- 
queror of  the  world,  should  subdue  one  of  his 
subjects.  You  have  assigned  me  a  task 
beyond  my  powers.     I  love  Campaspe  !  " 

'■  And  what  says  she  to  thee  ? "  said  Al-- 
exander. 

"  Not  a  word  !  "  replied  Apelles. 
The   monarch  too  remained   silent.     The 
next  day  he  ordered  that  the  portrait  should 
be  completed  ;  and  again  the  young  beauty 
appeared  in  the  study  of  the  artist. 

When  the  picture  was  finished,  Apelles 
presented  it  to  Alexander.  ''  I  accept  it," 
said  the  monarch ;  "  the  picture  is  tnine ; 
Campaspe  thine.'' 

The  generous  friendship  he  exhibited  to- 
wards Protogenes  was  afterwards  of  essential 
benefit  to  the  Rhodians ;  for  when  Deme- 
trius, the  famous  Besieger  of  Cities,  was  en- 
camped before  their  capital,  he  refused  to  set 
fire  to  a  part  of  the  city  where  was  situated 
the  study  of  the  artist,  though  it  would  have 
secm-ed  him  possession  of  the  city.  And 
afterwards,  when  the  city  was  taken,  his  ad- 
miration of  the  painting  of  lalysus,  mention-. 


36  APELLES    AND    PROTOGENES. 

ed  before,  obtained  for  it  much  more  favora- 
ble terms  than  the  Rhodians  had  dared  to 
expect.  It  is  related,  that  Protogenes  was 
fomid  engaged  in  painting  in  his  garden, 
when  the  troops  of  Demetrius  entered,  so  ab- 
sorbed in  his  occupation  as  to  appear  regard- 
less of  the  tumult  around.  On  being  brought 
before  the  conqueror,  and  asked  why  he  ex- 
hibited so  little  concern,  amid  the  general 
calamity,  he  replied,  "  that  he  understood 
Demetrius  warred  with  men,  not  with  the 
arts."  The  King  in  return,  requested  the 
artist  to  furnish  him  with  a  painting  of  his 
own  production,  and  sent  him  a  hundred 
talents. 

It  is  recorded  of  Apelles  that  he  never 
painted  on  walls,  nor  on  any  tiling  tliat  could 
not  be  saved  in  a  fire.  He  would  have  had 
the  works  of  the  best  masters  carried  from 
one  country  to  another,  and  could  not  endure 
that  a  picture  should  have  but  one  master ; 
because  painting,  he  said,  "  was  a  common 
good  to  all  the  world.  " 


CIMABUE  AND  GIOTTO. 


On  a  certain  day  in  the  year  1260,  the 
whole  city  of  Florence  appeared  to  be  in 
motion.  The  roofs  of  the  houses  were  filled 
with  spectators,  the  balconies  crowded,  and 
the  streets  thronged.  Few  seemed  to  under- 
stand exactly  what  was  the  occasion.  Some 
said  a  miracle  was  to  be  performed.  All 
were  in  eager  expectation  of  something 
strange  and  wonderful. 

At  length,  the  deep  solemn  chant  of  the 
monks  was  heard,  and  a  long  procession  of 
holy  fathers  appeared  in  sight.  The  loud 
impatience  of  the  populace  was  now  awed 
into  silence,  while  the  monks  proceeded 
along  the  streets,  their  heads  covered  with 
cowls,  and  their  long  black  robes  giving  an 
unearthly  appearance  to  their  figures ;  yet 
from  the  eyes  that  glanced  beneath  their 
dark  hoods  might  be  discerned  expressions  of 


38  CIMABUE    AND    GIOTTO. 

triumph  and  exultation;  there  was  none  of 
the  misericordia  of  their  usual  department. 
It  was  not  like  a  procession  formed  for  the 
house  of  death.  They  walked  with  rapid 
strides,  ever  and  anon  looking  impatiently 
behind,  and  even  their  hands,  instead  of 
being  meekly  folded  on  the  bosom,  had  a 
free  motion. 

They  were  on  their  way  to  the  church  St. 
Maria  Novella.  Two  Italians  stood  on  a 
small  eminence  that  bordered  the  Arno  ;  one 
was  of  mature  age,  the  other  a  mere  boy,  and 
wore  evidently  the  dress  of  a  shepherd  ;  but 
what  put  his  occupation  beyond  doubt,  was 
the  crook  which  he  bore,  and  a  large  dog  by 
his  side,  of  the  race  which  the  Italian 
peasants  use,  to  watch  their  flocks. 

"  Come,  come,  Giotto,"  said  the  oldest, 
"  the  day  is  getting  far  advanced,  the  sun 
strikes  the  old  tower  yonder,  and  we  must  be 
about  our  work  ;  we  cannot  be  idling  here." 

"  Nay,  father,"  said  the  youngest,  "  the 
holy  fathers  have  already  arrived  at  the 
church,  and  the  triumphal  procession  will 
soon  follow." 

"  In  truth,"  said  Giacopo,  "  thou  art 
possessed,  —  by  thy  young  master  Cimabue  ; 
—  St.  Peter  grant  it  may  not  be  by  an  evil 
spirit." 


CIMABUE    AND    GIOTTO.  39 

"  How  canst  thou  say  that,  father  ?  "  said 
the  boy,  "  Did  he  not  save  my  life  among 
the  hills,  when  I  lay  sleeping,  and  my  faith- 
ful Fido  was  away  ?  Yes,  Fido,"  said  the 
boy,  patting  the  head  of  the  dog,  who,  hear- 
ing his  own  name,  wagged  his  tail,  and  lick- 
ed his  master's  hand,  "  when  thou  wert 
away  ;  for  hadst  thou  been  by,  I  should  not 
have  wanted  any  body  else.  Oh,  never  shall 
I  forget  when  I  first  heard  the  growl  of  the 
panther.  I  awoke  from  my  sleep  quick 
enough.  There  he  was,  crouched  on  the 
crag  above,  his  eyes  looking  like  balls  of  fire, 
and  only  waiting  for  me  to  move,  to  spring 
upon  me  :  before  me  was  the  deep  ravine 
through  which  the  mountain  torrent  was 
pouring.  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  prayed  to 
the  blessed  mother  —  and  then  suddenly  I 
heard  a  loud  howl,  and  in  a  moment  the 
panther,  struggling  in  the  agony  of  death 
came  rolling  down,  crushing  the  very  trees 
by  his  weight,  and  fell  headlong  into  the 
torrent.  Then  I  breathed,  and  looked  up, 
and  there  stood  Cimabue,  my  young  master, 
with  his  bow  still  in  his  hand.  —  Ah,  father, 
can  I  ever  forget  that  moment  ?  " 

"  Thou  shouldst  not,  my  son,"  replied  the 
old   Giotto,    "  but   thou    must   not    set   thy 


40  CIMABUE    AND    GIOTTO. 

young  master  above  the  virgin  Mary,  and  the 
holy  saints  ;  didst  thou  not  say,  even  now, 
that  thou  prayed  to  the  blessed  mother  ?  it 
was  she  that  saved  thy  life,  and  put  vigor 
into  the  arm  of  Cimabue,  and  directed  the 
arrow  as  it  sped  from  the  bow." 

"  And  well,  father,  has  he  repaid  the  deed. 
Ah  !  thou  wilt  see  the  beautiful  picture  he 
has  drawn  of  her  ;  —  all  Florence  will  see  it. 
—  Hark,  dost  thou  not  hear  the  sound  of 
cymbals  and  trumpets  ?  It  comes  !  it  comes  ! 
On,  father,  on  !  Let  us  to  the  street  through 
which  it  must  pass." 

They  hastened  to  the  Borgo  Allegri, 
which  took  its  name  from  the  joyous  occa- 
sion. The  procession  advanced.  The  pic- 
ture of  the  Virgin  Mary,  larger  than  life,  was 
borne  on  a  triumphal  car,  by  milk-white 
steeds,  with  nodding  plumes,  and  harnessed 
with  blooming  wreaths.  The  Tuscan  girls 
preceded  it,  dressed  in  white  robes,  and 
strewing  flowers.  Every  little  while,  a  bell 
was  rung,  and  the  host  elevated.  To  the 
joyous  acclamations  of  the  multitude  that 
shook  the  air,  profound  silence  succeeded, 
every  knee  was  bent :  again  the  bell  rung, 
and  all  was  life  and  animation.  Then 
came  a  new  procession  of  priests,  with  the 


CIMABUE    AND    GIOTTO.  41 

young  choristers  bearing  their  wax  candles 
and  consecrated  palms,  and  finally  Cimabue 
himself,  the  yomig  artist,  crowned  with  the 
lam-el  wreath,  and  followed  by  the  nobles  of 
Florence. 

The  procession  slowly  moved  toward  the 
church  of  Maria  Novella,  and  there  the  Vir- 
gin was  received  by  the  holy  brotherhood 
with  fresh  honors,  and  placed  in  her  new 
residence.  High  mass  was  performed,  and 
the  day  concluded  with  feasting  and  mirth  ; 
while,  in  the  evening,  the  Arno  reflected 
from  its  glassy  bosom,  the  fire-works  which 
arose  with  new  acclamations  from  the  enthu- 
siastic multitude. 

Cimabue  was  a  descendant  of  the  Gondi 
family,  one  of  the  most  noble  in  Florence. 
They  had  given  a  long  line  of  Saints  to  the 
calendar,  and  now  the  last  count  determined 
to  adorn  the  family  chapel  with  rich  paint- 
ings. But  where  were  the  artists  to  be 
found  ?  Not  in  Italy.  The  destructive 
wars  had  crushed  the  arts,  and  nothing  re- 
mained worthy  of  the  name.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  send  to  Greece  for  painters.  Tliey 
came,  and,  however  imperfect  were  their 
works,  fired  the  genius  of  the  young  Cima- 
bue.    After  studying  and  becoming  familiar 


42  CIMABUE    AND    GIOTTO, 

ill  practice  and  in  theory  with  their  manner, 
he  abandoned  it  for  a  better,  and,  inspired,  as 
he  said,  "  by  the  blessed  Mother  herself, 
who  sat  to  him  in  her  own  person,"  he  pro- 
duced a  painting  of  her  to  adorn  the  church 
dedicated  to  her  worship.  It  was  no  sooner 
beheld,  than  it  was  pronounced  a  miracle. 
A  day  was  appointed  in  which  it  was  to  be 
carried  to  the  place  of  its  destination,  with 
divine  honors,  a  portion  of  which  were  show- 
ered upon  the  head  of  the  artist. 

Encouraged  by  this  success,  Cimabue  ven- 
tured to  paint  without  the  immediate  patron- 
age or  inspiration  of  the  Yirgin  Mary.  He 
now  produced  a  picture  of  Christ  cruciJ&ed, 
with  the  mother  and  St.  John  near  ;  but  it  is 
evident  his  conceptions  went  far  beyond  his 
execution,  as  he  was  reduced  to  the  necessity 
of  putting  written  labels  into  their  mouths, 
to  express  the  sentiments  of  the  individuals. 

Of  all  his  admirers  none  was  more  ardent 
than  Giotto,  a  simple  hind,  in  the  duke  his 
father's  service,  who  had  been  appointed  to 
the  honorable  office  of  guarding  the  flocks 
among  the  hills  of  Tuscany.  Cimabue  had 
saved  his  life  ;  but  this  was  not  the  only 
source  of  his  enthusiasm  ;  —  he  had  been 
sometimes  admitted  to  a  sight  of  his  paint- 


CIMABUE    AND    GIOTTO.  43 

ings,  was  a  worshipper  of  his  Maria  at  the 
church  Novella,  and  now  might  be  daily 
seen  in  the  fields  with  a  piece  of  chalk  in  his 
hand,  sketching  figures  on  the  rocks,  while 
his  sheep  were  grazing  near  him. 

In  one  of  Ciambue's  rambles  over  his  pa- 
ternal domains,  he  was  struck  with  a  draw- 
mg  of  a  lamb  on  one  of  the  smooth  rocks. 
It  seemed  to  him  very  remarkable ;  and,  in- 
quiring who  had  made  it,  he  learned  that  it 
was  Giotto.  He  immediately  sought  out  the 
father,  and  offered  to  take  the  boy  as  a 
pupil. 

Giotto  well  repaid  his  instructions.  He 
at  once  threw  off  the  fetters  of  the  Greeks, 
with  whom  the  art  had  been  degenerating 
from  the  time  of  Apelles,  and  who  now  had 
little  to  bestow  on  the  Italians,  after  having 
stimulated  •them  to  the  cultivation  of  their 
native  powers. 

The  extreme  rapidity  with  which  Giotto 
advanced  in  design,  undoubtedly  arose  from 
the  study  of  the  ancient  sculpture,  many  spe- 
cimens of  which  had  already  been  discovered 
among  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  cities  and 
villas. 

His  pure  taste  soon  discarded  the  use  of 
labels.  "  I  must  express  by  my  pencil," 
said  he,  "  what  Dante  would  by  words." 


44 


CIMABUE    AND    GIOTTO. 


This  was  indeed  a  difficult  task,  and  im- 
perfectly accomplished ;  yet  he  arrived  at  so 
much  excellence  as  to  be  called  the  pupil  of 
nature,  and  marked  out  the  path  in  which 
the  art  ought  to  be  pursued.  He  did  not 
confine  himself  to  painting  in  fresco,  (the 
use  of  oil  was  then  unknown,)  but  executed 
figures  in  mosaic  also.  One  of  these  is  pre- 
served, representing  Christ  walking  on  the 
water,  and  the  disciples  in  the  boat,  exhib- 
iting each  characteristic  sisns  of  fear  and 
amazement.  This  was  afterwards  placed 
over  the  srreat  entrance  to  St.  Peter's  Church, 
at  Rome,  and  is  known  by  the  name  of  "  Gi- 
otto's Boat." 

The  devotion  and  constant  deference  of 
Giotto  to  Cimabue,  was  a  grateful  tribute  to 
that  noble  artist ;  for  the  pupil  had  now  far 
surpassed  the  master,  though  al"^ays  yield- 
ing him  the  attention  of  a  son.  Cimabue 
bequeathed  to  his  young  friend  the  favor 
of  his  admiring  fellow-citizens,  and  the 
friendship  of  his  family. 

At  that  time  Dante  had  just  become  known 
as  a  poet.  Between  him  and  Giotto  a  strict 
friendship  was  formed.  They  might  well 
consider  themselves  engaged  in  a  common 
cause  ;  for  it  is  difficult  to  mark  a  line  of  dis- 


CIMABUE    AND    GIOTTO.  45 

tinction  between  the  two  arts  of  poetry  and 
painting,  when  their  respective  operations 
upon  the  character  are  superficially  consider- 
ed. Painting,  however,  has  a  tendency  to 
abstract  the  mind  from  the  causes  of  popu- 
lar excitement ;  while  poetry  sometimes  con- 
nects an  author  with  the  heart-stirring  inter- 
ests of  social  life.  This  was  the  case  with 
Dante ;  he  was  engaged  in  violent  factions, 
and  finally  exiled  from  his  native  city,  Flo- 
rence. Previously,  however,  he  was  one 
day  contemplating  Giotto's  picture  of  St. 
Francisco,  where  he  represents  the  various 
scenes  of  that  Saint's  life  in  thirty-two 
pieces.  "I perceive,"  said  he,  "you  will 
win  immortality." 

"  Not  unless  you  will  secure  it  to  me,  by 
permitting  me  to  paint  your  portrait,"  re- 
plied the  artist. 

Dante  consented ;  and  it  is  to  Giotto  that 
the  world  owes  the  portrait  of  the  illustrious 
poet. 

The  fame  of  the  artist  could  not  be  confin- 
ed to  Florence.  Pope  Benedict  sent  for  him 
to  Rome,  and  employed  him  in  the  Vatican, 
and  in  St.  Peter's  Church.* 

*  It  was  he  who  sent  to  Florence  for  an  artist,  and  select- 
ed Giotto,  on  account  of  the  perfection  of  an  O  that  he  drew 


44 


CIMABUE    AND    GIOTTO. 


This  was  indeed  a  difficult  task,  and  im- 
perfectly accomplished ;  yet  he  arrived  at  so 
much  excellence  as  to  be  called  the  pupil  of 
nature,  and  marked  out  the  path  in  which 
the  art  ought  to  be  piusued.  He  did  not 
confine  himself  to  painting  in  fresco,  (the 
use  of  oil  was  then  unknown,)  but  executed 
figures  in  mosaic  also.  One  of  these  is  pre- 
served, representing  Christ  walking  on  the 
water,  and  the  disciples  in  the  boat,  exhib- 
iting each  characteristic  signs  of  fear  and 
amazement.  This  was  afterwards  placed 
over  the  great  entrance  to  St.  Peter's  Church, 
at  Rome,  and  is  known  by  the  name  of  "  Gi- 
otto's Boat." 

The  devotion  and  constant  deference  of 
Giotto  to  Cimabue,  was  a  grateful  tribute  to 
that  noble  artist ;  for  the  pupil  had  now  far 
surpassed  the  master,  though  always  yield- 
ing him  the  attention  of  a  son.  Cimabue 
bequeathed  to  his  young  friend  the  favor 
of  his  admiring  fellow-citizens,  and  the 
friendship  of  his  family. 

At  that  time  Dante  had  just  become  known 
as  a  poet.  Between  him  and  Giotto  a  strict 
friendship  was  formed.  They  might  well 
consider  themselves  engaged  in  a  common 
cause  ;  for  it  is  difficult  to  mark  a  line  of  dis^ 


CIM.VBUE    AND    GIOTTO.  45 

tinction  between  the  two  arts  of  poetry  and 
painting,  when  their  respective  operations 
upon  the  character  are  superficially  consider- 
ed. Painting,  however,  has  a  tendency  to 
abstract  the  mind  from  the  causes  of  popu- 
lar excitement ;  while  poetry  sometimes  con- 
nects an  author  with  the  heart-stirring  inter- 
ests of  social  life.  This  was  the  case  with 
Dante  ;  he  was  engaged  in  violent  factions, 
and  jEinally  exiled  from  his  native  city,  Flo- 
rence. Previously,  however,  he  was  one 
day  contemplating  Giotto's  picture  of  St. 
Francisco,  where  he  represents  the  various 
scenes  of  that  Saint's  life  in  thirty-two 
pieces.  "I perceive,"  said  he,  "you  will 
win  immortality." 

"  Not  unless  you  will  secure  it  to  me,  by 
permitting  me  to  paint  your  portrait,"  re- 
plied the  artist. 

Dante  consented ;  and  it  is  to  Giotto  that 
the  world  owes  the  portrait  of  the  illustrious 
poet. 

The  fame  of  the  artist  could  not  be  confin- 
ed to  Florence.  Pope  Benedict  sent  for  him 
to  Rome,  and  employed  him  in  the  Vatican, 
and  in  St.  Peter's  Church.* 

•  It  was  he  who  sent  to  Florence  for  an  artist,  and  select- 
ed Giotto,  on  account  of  the  perfection  uf  an  O  that  he  drew 


46  CIMABUE    AND    GIOTTO. 

Clement  took  him  with  him  to  Avignon, 
where  he  became  acquainted  with  Petrarch, 
who  resided  at  Yaucluse,  a  few  miles  distant. 
Poetry  and  eloquence  had  then  seduced  the 
poet  from  the  diy  study  of  jiuisprudence,  and 
prepared  his  imagination  for  the  absorbing 
passion  of  love.  That  he  viewed  the  fair 
Laura's  indifference  with  a  prophetic  eye, 
the  following  lines  are  a  proof :  — 

"  My  flame,  of  which  thou  tak'st  so  little  heed, 
And  thy  high  praises  poui'ed  through  all  my  song, 
O'er  many  a  breast  may  future  influence  spread: 
These,  my  sweet  fair,  so  warns  poetic  thought, 
Closed  thy  bright  eye  and  mute  thy  poet's  tongue. 
E'en  after  death  shall  still  with  sparks  be  fraught." 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  Giotto  did  not 
take  the  portrait  of  Laura,  giving  her  to  pos- 
terity as  Petrarch  describes  her  when  he 
first  saw  her  before  those  "  gay  green  robes," 
and  the  -"  wreaths  she  was  wont  to  wear, 
were  thrown  by."  The  honor  of  painting 
her  portrait  was  allotted,  by  the  poet,  to  Si- 
mon Memmi,  whom  he  mentions  in  one  or 
two    sonnets,    on    which    Vasari    remarks, 

with  so  much  accuracy  that  it  has  passed  into  an  Italian 
proverb  —  round  as  Giotto's  O. 

"  Tu  sei  piu  rundo  che  I'O  di  Giotto." 

It  was  certainly  a  great  proof  of  the  accuracy  of  his 
hand. 


CIMABUE    AND    GIOTTO.  47 

that  "  Simon  would  be  more  obliged  to  them 
for  future  fame  than  to  all  the  pictures  he 
ever  painted." 

While  poetry  was  in  the  highest  state  of 
intellectual  vigor,  as  is  proved  by  the  death- 
less poem  of  Dante's  Inferno,  in  which  he 
celebrates  Giotto,  and  by  the  exquisite  son- 
nets and  odes  of  Petrarch,  painting  was  yet 
in  its  childhood.  The  written  labels  in  the 
mouth  of  Cimabue's  figures,  give  an  idea 
of  the  state  of  the  art  in  his  hands.  So, 
the  fact  that  Masaccio,  a  century  after  the 
death  of  Giotto,  was  the  first  to  lay  the  feet 
of  upright  figures  flat  on  the  ground,  and  to 
introduce  foreshortening,  is  a  proof  of  what 
degree  of  progress  had  been  made  previ- 
ously to  his  time. 

While  Dante  was  in  exile  at  Ravenna,  he 
sent  to  Giotto  to  join  him ;  when  there,  he 
painted  several  pieces  in  fresco,  for  the 
churches  ;  and  on  his  return  to  Florence,  was 
sent  for  by  the  king  of  Naples.  Soon  after 
his  arrival  he  heard  of  the  death  of  Dante. 
He  was  employed  to  paint  in  the  chapel  of 
the  monastery  St.  Chiara,  which  had  just  been 
completed.  The  subjects  he  selected  were 
scenes  from  the  Old  and  New  Testament. 
And  many  snid  that  his  manner  of  treating  his 


48  CIMABUE    AND    GIOTTO, 

subject  was  through  the  inspiration  of  Dante. 
He  seemed  to  entertain  something  of  the 
same  idea  himself,  and  it  was  fully  believed 
that  the  poet  appeared  to  him  in  a  dream, 
and  suggested  the  composition.  His  death 
took  place  in  1336,  at  the  age  of  sixty.  He 
was  buried  in  the  Church  St.  Maria  del  Fi- 
ore,  at  Florence,  and  the  city  erected  a  mar- 
ble statue  over  his  tomb. 

He  is  said,  by  historians  of  the  day,  to 
have  been  the  painter  of  nature  ;  and  it  is  re- 
lated, among  other  anecdotes,  that,  while  yet 
a  boy,  he  was  standing  by  Cimabue,  who 
was  finishing  the  nose  of  a  portrait,  and 
when  the  master  was  suddenly  called  away, 
painted  a  fly  on  it  so  naturally,  that  Cima- 
bue, when  he  returned,  attempted  to  brush 
it  away  with  his  hand. 

Many  of  the  painters  who  succeeded  Giot- 
to practised  the  art  creditably,  and  helped  its 
progress.  But  Lionardo  da  Vinci  was  the 
first  to  unite  to  skill  and  industry  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  the  theory,  and  the  intellectual 
preparation  which  is  necessary  for  high  suc- 
cess. He  could  not  be  satisfied  with  imita- 
tion only,  or  mere  outward  effect.  To  satis- 
fy him,  it  was  necessary  that  the  latent  feel- 
ings of  the  heart  should  be  depicted  in  the 


CIMABUE    AND    GIOTTO.  49 

countenance  and  bearing.  How  much  his 
own  sensibility  assisted  him  in  carrying  his 
idea  into  execution,  may  easily  be  under- 
stood. 

To   Cimabue  then,  the  restoration  of  the 
•  art  in  Italy  is  first  to  be  attributed.     Mas- 
.accio  succeeded  him  after  the  interval  of  a 
■  century.      Many  undistinguished  names  fol- 
lowed, and  Lionardo  himself  at   length  ap- 
peared. 


LIONARDO  DA  VINCI. 


Reclined  on  his  couch  lay  the  excellent 
old  Andrea  Verocchio.*  The  dews  of  death 
moistened  his  furrowed  and  pale  forehead  ; 
yet  his  eyes  sparkled  still  with  a  deep  enthu- 
siasm, as  he  contemplated  a  picture  he  had 
completed  for  the  reUgiosi  di  Valomhrosa. 
It  was  the  baptism  of  our  Savior; — but  it 
was  not  the  work  of  his  own  pencil  that  he 
was  contemplating  ;  it  was  the  figure  of  an 
angel,  which  his  youthful  pupil,  Lionardo 
da  Vinci,  had  introduced.     He  had  given  it  a 

*  Verocchio  was  a  goldsmith  or  graver,  a  musician,  a 
geometrician,  and  a  sculptor,  before  he  became  a  painter. 
It  would  seem  from  many  instances  that  the  arts  were  more 
intimately  connected  in  former  times  than  at  present ;  and 
yet  how  many  must  unite  to  form  the  perfect  artist.  His 
success  in  casting  was  very  great.  Ilis  death  (in  1488)  is 
said  to  have  been  occasioned  by  a  pleurisy,  brought  on  by 
the  fatigue  and  anxiety  he  experienced  in  casting  a  brass 
statue  of  Bartolomeo  de  Bergamo. 


LIONARDO    DA  VINCI.  51 

celestial  expression,  an  ethereal  smile,  that 
the  master  felt  was  far  beyond  his  own  con- 
ception. 

At  that  moment  his  pupil  entered.  "  My 
son,"  said  he,  "  I  have  closed  my  easel  and 
laid  aside  my  pencil  forever  !  But  not  with 
me  expires  my  art,  —  to  thee  I  bequeath 
these  implements,  —  thou  shalt  go  forward, 
and  thy  fame  extend  over  Italy,  —  in  thy 
hands  they  may  accomplish  an  excellence 
unknown  before  ;  —  but  remember,  that  in 
mine  they  have  never  been  degraded  to  an 
unworthy  use  !  Guard  them,  my  son  ;  but, 
above  all,  guard  thyself!  " 

Lionardo  kissed  the  emaciated  hand  which 
pressed  his  own.  "My  more  than  father," 
he  exclaimed,  "  thou  knowest  my  imperfec- 
tions, that  I  am  proud  and  headstrong,  pas- 
sionate and  easily  offended,  revengeful,  and 
prone  to  satirize  and  caricatiue.  Thou  know- 
est my  many  faults ;  thy  voice,  thy  very 
glance,  can  subdue  my  overbearing  temper  ; 
but,  without  thee,  what  am  I  ?  " 

"  My  son,"  said  the  old  man,  smiling  faint- 
ly, "  thou  must  do  that  for  thyself  which  I 
cannot  do  for  thee.  Thou  hast  within  thee 
the  seeds  of  great  good  and  great  evil.  To 
mature    the    one,     and    repress    the    other, 


54  LIONARDO    DA    VINCI. 

is  forgotten,  may  that  of  Lionardo  da  Vinci 
be  preserved  by  its  own  brightness.  Virtue 
creates  immortality  ;  genius  may  emblazon 
the  name  of  an  artist  in  this  lower  world  ; 
but  his  virtues  find  a  reward  in  heaven.  Be 
it  yoius  to  live  in  the  praise  and  blessing  of 
posterity  ;  but  look  only  to  another  existence 
for  the  recompense.  My  strength  is  fast  fail- 
ing :  I  must  depart  to  that  land  where  the 
good  and  the  true  meet  again.  Thou  couldst 
not  desire  to  detain  me  here.  Farewell !  I 
leave  behind  me,  in  thee,  a  glorious  continua- 
tion of  myself.     My  mission  is  finished." 

In  a  few  minutes  after  these  his  last 
words,  Lionardo's  tears  fell  fast  and  bitter  on 
the  lifeless  form  of  his  good  old  master,  as  he 
gently  closed  his  eyes,  and  signed  the  holy 
cross  on  his  venerable  forehead.  "  Yes,"  he 
exclaimed,  kneeling  reverently  by  his  side, 
"  thy  prayers  shall  be  fulfilled.  I  will  sub- 
due the  evil  elements  of  my  nature ;  and  not 
for  myself,  but  for  mankind,  will  I  labor  in 
the  divine  art  which  I  learned  from  thee,  and 
of  which  thy  last  lesson  has  now  taught  me 
the  true  spirit ;  —  and  my  reward  shall  be 
with  thee  in  heaven." 

The  Castello  di  Vinci,  situated  in  the 
beautiful  Val  d'Arno,  was  the  birth-place  of 


LIONARDO    DA    VINCI.  65 

Lionardo.  He  was  one  of  the  most  accom- 
plished men  of  his  time.  His  face  was  fine 
and  intellectual,  his  figure  commanding,  his 
bearing  graceful,  his  air  noble  and  courteous. 
He  was  also  distinguished  for  his  youthful 
strength  and  skill  in  all  manly  exercises, 
and  for  his  acquaintance  with  the  military 
science.  His  voice  was  clear  and  musical, 
his  conversation  amusing  and  instructive, 
while  he  united  a  gentle  simplicity  of 
manners  with  politeness  and  natural  dignity. 
When  to  this  was  added  his  glorious  and 
almost  universal  genius,  it  is  not  strange  that 
he  was  generally  regarded  as  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  men  of  his  day.  He  excelled  in 
music,  poetry,  and  belles-lettres.  Nor  was 
he  less  successful  in  architecture  and  in 
sculpture,  (of  which  he  began  the  study 
with  his  old  master  Andrea,)  than  in  paint- 
ing ;  while  he  cultivated  all  the  sciences  of 
the  age,  chemistry,  anatomy,  and  mathemat- 
ics, as  subservient  to  his  art. 

One  peculiarity  deserves  to  be  noted,  that 
all  his  manuscripts,  which  have  been  preserv- 
ed, are  written  in  the  oriental  manner,  from 
right  to  left,  the  reverse  of  the  common 
usage.  It  has  been  conjectured  from  obser- 
vation of  his  drawings  and  designs,  that  he 


56  LIONARDO    DA    VINCI. 

used  his  left  hand  instead  of  his  right,  as 
they  are  all  reversed  from  what  is  generally 
found  in  the  works  of  other  artists,  whether 
ancient  or  modern. 

From  the  time  of  the  death  of  his  master, 
he  made  rapid  advances  in  excellence.  He 
cherished  his  memory  with  the  most  reverent 
affection  ;  he  reflected  on  his  lessons,  and 
studied  to  model  himself  by  his  precepts. 
He  examined  his  own  performances  with  the 
most  jealous  and  fastidious  eye,  finding  al- 
ways more  to  condemn  than  approve,  by  the 
unapproachable  standard  of  his  own  ideal. 
He  even  carried  this  self-dissatisfaction  too 
far.  The  higher  the  perfection  he  attained 
in  his  art,  the  less  was  he  satisfied  with  his 
execution.  He  thus  destroyed  a  great  num- 
ber of  his  own  performances,  especially  of  his 
earlier  days. 

The  Duke  of  Milan,  Ludovico  Sforza,  was 
anxious  to  secure  so  brilliant  an  ornament  to 
his  court,  and  was  eager  in  offering  induce- 
ments to  attract  Lionardo  to  a  residence  in 
his  dominions  ;  who,  accordingly,  was  prevail- 
ed upon  to  leave  his  native  abode  near  Flor- 
ence, for  that  purpose.  It  is  said  that  the 
jealousy  and  suspicion  of  Michelangelo,  who 
was  just  then  beginning  to  rise  into  distinc- 


LIONARDO    DA    VINCI.  57 

tion,  made  him  the  more  wilhng  to  quit 
a  place  where  he  was  hated  as  a  rival. 
Though  both  of  the  artists  were  of  surpass- 
ing excellence,  their  perfections  lay  in  differ- 
ent lines.  Lionardo  was  full  of  sensibility 
and  imagination  ;  his  region  was  mind  ;  he 
delighted  to  express  all  the  pure  and  exalted 
emotions  of  the  soul.  He  Avas  select  in  his 
choice  of  subjects,  and  unless  they  were 
such  as  to  interest  his  heart,  his  hand  became 
utterly  paralyzed,  and  he  abandoned  his 
attempt.  He  was  sensitive  and  delicate  ; 
but  his  passions,  when  excited,  were  hasty 
and  violent.  If  Raphael  afterwards  surpass- 
ed him,  he  had  the  glory  of  being  first  in  the 
new  path  which  he  struck  out. 

Michelangelo,  on  the  other  hand,  studied 
strength  and  sublimity,  and  affected  to  look 
doAvn  on  the  less  bold  conceptions  of  Lio- 
nardo ;  meeting  his  generous  advances  with 
coldness,  and  appearing  to  avoid  any  asso- 
ciation. 

It  may  readily  be  imagined  that  the  Duke 
of  Milan  welcomed  Da  Vinci,  and  loaded  him 
with  honors.  He  prevailed  on  him  to  be 
director  of  the  Academy  of  Architecture 
which  he  had  just  established.  Here,  Lion- 
ardo soon  restored  the  beautiful  simplicity  of 


58  LIONAKDO    DA    VINCI. 

the  Greek  and  Roman  styles.  He  construct- 
ed the  famous  aqueduct  that  suppUes  the  city 
of  Milan  with  water,  \Vhich  goes  by  the 
name  of  Mortesana,  and  by  which  the  waters 
of  Adda  are  conducted  two  hundred  miles  to 
the  city. 

The   following   anecdote   has  an  interest, 
as   illustrating   the   wonderful   versatility   of 
Lionardo's  talent.     The  painter,  the  sculptor, 
the  architect,    the   poet,  the  man  of  science 
and  polite  literature,  the  accomplished  gentle- 
man  and  soldier,  and  distinguished  alike  in 
all,  it  exhibits  him  also  as  remarkably  inge- 
nious in  the  principles  and  art  of  mechanics. 
In  1479,    when  Louis  XII,  of  France,  was 
to   make  his   entrance   into   Milan,  he  con- 
structed an  automaton  lion,  which  marched 
out  to  meet  the  King,  reared  upon  its  hind 
legs,  and,  opening    its    breast,  displayed  an 
escutcheon  with  the  arms  of  France  quarter- 
ed upon  it.     In  the  military  sports  and  feats 
which  were   performed,  Lionardo  was  um-i- 
valled ;    and,    as    a    horseman,    he    excited 
universal  admiration,   by  the   boldness    and 
skill  with  which  he  could  manage  the  wild- 
est   and    most    imgovernable    steed.     Louis 
greatly  coveted  the   honor   of  possessing  so 
distinguished  an  acquisition  to  his  court,  and 


LIONARDO    DA    VINCI.  59 

is  said  to  have  made  him  splendid  offers  ; 
but  Lionardo  dechned  them  all.  Certainly^ 
however,  he  felt  no  great  friendship  for,  or 
sympathy  with,  the  Duke,  who  possessed 
a  countenance  expressing  low  passions,  and 
which  could  excite  in  the  high-minded  artist 
only  aversion  and  disgust. 

There  was  one,  also,  who  was  constantly 
with  the  Duke,  that  regarded  the  Florentine 
with  an  evil  eye  :  this  was  the  Prior  of  the 
Dominican  convent.  Though  his  words 
dropped  honey,  the  honey  was  mingled  with 
gall.  His  dark  malicious  eyes  looked  slily 
out  from  over-hanging  eye-brows  ;  his  fore- 
head was  knit  into  a  thousand  wrinkles, 
and  his  scornful  mouth  covered  with  a  bristly 
red  beard  ;  his  nose  hooked  over  this  frightful 
mouth,  like  the  beak  of  some  obscene  bird ; 
in  short,  his  whole  appearance  inspired  dis- 
trust and  detestation. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  displeasure  with 
which  this  monk  regarded  Lionardo  ;  whose 
abhorrence  for  so  fiend-like  a  countenance, 
and  contempt  for  the  character  of  which 
it  was  the  mirror,  were  probably  hardly 
concealed.  Every  honor  which  the  Duke 
conferred  upon  the  artist,  he  considered  an 
insult  to  himself,  and  he  determined  to  hcs- 


60 


LIONARDO    DA    VINCI. 


itate  at  no  means  Avhich  might  accomplish 
his  niin. 

Lionardo  soon  found  himself  at  the  com't 
of  the  Duke  of  Milan,  in  a  situation  wholly 
uncongenial  to  his  tastes,  and  a  gloom  took 
possession  of  his  mind,  which  he  in  vain  en- 
deavored to  banish.  He  sometimes  succeed- 
ed in  the  open  air,  when  he  was  engaged  in 
his  mechanical  or  architectural  works ;  for 
then  the  bright  and  glowing  colors  of  nature 
spread  their  own  hues  over  his  feelings. 
The  fresh  air  invigorated  his  mind ;  the 
showers  of  the  morning,  the  dews  of  the 
evening,  the  exhalations  of  the  night,  the 
starry  vault  of  the  heavens,  all  gave  impulse 
to  his  spirit,  and  carried  him  over  hills  and 
through  valleys.  But,  when  he  sat  silent 
before  his  easel,  then  did  his  brow  become 
clouded,  and  his  hand  unsteady.  Many  of 
Lionardo's  pictm-es  of  this  period  are  lost. 
He  often  destroyed  them  himself,  in  a  fit  of 
disgust,  when  they  only  wanted  a  few  mas- 
terly strokes  to  complete  them. 

The  Duke  possessed  an  ardent  love  of  the 
fine  arts:  his  great  misfortune  was  that  of 
having  fallen  so  entirely  under  the  influence 
of  the  artful  Dominican,  who  swayed  him  to 
his  own   purposes,  which  were  all  low  and 


LIONARDO    DA    VINCI,  61 

selfish.  Often  did  he  stand  enraptured  over 
the  works  of  the  artist.  "  This,"  he  would 
exclaim,  "  will  be  the  gem  of  my  collection. 
Gifted  Florentine  !  proceed  with  thy  work, 
and  ask  what  thou  wilt.  All  price  is  be- 
low it." 

The  Dominican  was  enraged  by  all  the 
new  honors  heaped  upon  Lionardo,  and  he 
determined  to  destroy  him.  He  had  minute- 
ly observed  him  ;  studied  his  character,  and 
the  peculiar,  delicate  constitution  of  his 
mind.  Hatred  is  patient  and  indefatigable. 
He  knew  that  Lionardo's  pencil  became 
powerless,  unless  his  taste,  mind,  and  heart 
went  along  with  it ;  and  on  this  knowledge 
he  formed  his  plan. 

"  My  Lord,"  said  he  to  the  Duke,  "  I  feel 
most  bitterly  for  your  many  disappointments. 
No  sooner  have  you  set  your  heart  upon  a 
picture,  than  the  capricious  and  daring  Flor- 
entine draws  his  brush  over  it.  Let  me  ad- 
vise you  to  sit  for  your  own  portrait  —  this 
at  least  he  will  not  presume  to  dishonor  — 
and  you  may  have  one  perfect  gem  from  his 
hand  for  your  collection." 

The  Duke  seized  instantly  upon  the  idea. 

"  You  shall  paint  my  portrait,"  said  he  to 
Lionardo ;    "  then   one   of  your   pictures,    at 


62  LIONARDO    DA    VINCI. 

least,  will  be  saved  from  destruction.  Yoiir 
respect  for  me,  as  well  as  yom-  affection,  will 
not  permit  you  to  draw  the  brush  over  the 
lineaments  of  your  friend  and  patron." 

The  artist  trembled  at  the  order.  How, 
indeed,  could  Lionai'do,  who  delighted  to 
paint  nature  in  its  fairest  forms,  endure  such 
a  subject,  such  a  combination  of  physical 
ugliness,  utterly  unredeemed  by  moral  beau- 
ty ?  The  red  shock  hair,  the  grey  twink- 
ling eyes,  the  pale,  ashy  cheek,  and  ill- 
shapen  head  —  it  \\ras  impossible,  and  yet  the 
Duke  commanded  it !  Refuse  he  could  not. 
Yet,  if  he  obeyed,  could  he  prostitute  his 
glorious  art  to  flatter  the  tyrant,  and  disguise 
his  hideousness  by  a  deceitful  falsehood  ? 
While,  if  he  painted  him  true  to  natiue, 
what  a  specimen  of  his  art  would  go  down  to 
posterity,  to  be  pointed  at  through  after  ages, 
as  a  proof  that  Lionardo  da  Vinci  sold  his 
pencil  for  gold ! 

It  was  in  vain  that  he  called  upon  the 
spirit  of  his  master,  Andrea.  "  Well  then," 
exclaimed  Lionardo,  "  I  must  drink  the  bitter 
cup,  and  paint  him  as  he  is.  It  is  true  he 
will  read  in  his  portrait  his  own  hateful 
character ;  but  I  will  not  degrade  nry  pencil 
by  flattery  —  I  will  not  deserve  the  scorn  of 
after  ages." 


LIONARDO    DA    VINCI.  63 

With  a  trembling  hand  he  took  the  pencil, 
while  the  Duke  sat  before  him  with  proud 
importance,  and  arrayed  in  princely  ermine. 
Behind  him  the  Dominican  had  placed  him- 
self, and  looked  at  the  artist  with  exulting 
malice,  reading  in  his  troubled  eye  and 
trembling  hand,  the  full  influence  of  the 
malignant  spell  which  his  wiles  had  cast 
upon  him.  In  vain  Lionardo  essayed  to 
draw  an  outline  ;  he  saw  nothing  but  the 
horrible  face  of  the  monk.  At  length  he 
exclaimed,  throwing  down  his  pencil,  "  I  can 
do  nothing  unless  your  highness  remain  with 
me  alone."  The  Duke  ordered  the  Domini- 
can to  depart,  and  a  new  motive  to  revenge 
arose  in  the  monk's  heart. 

Lionardo  proceeded  with  his  work,  day 
after  day,  but  the  nearer  the  painting  ap- 
proached its  completion,  the  more  dissatisfied 
became  the  artist.  At  length,  however,  the 
last  stroke  was  given,  and  it  stood  against  the 
wall  completed  in  all  its  revolting  ugliness. 

"  How,"  cried  Lionardo,  losing  all  self- 
command,  "  shall  a  picture  like  this  go  down 
to  posterity  ?  Shall  I  tarnish  my  fame  and 
soil  the  art  by  such  a  specimen?  rather 
perish  my  art  —  rather  perish  myself!  "  ex- 
claimed he,  striking  his  foot  with  violence 
against  the  pannel.     It  flew  into  fragments. 


64  LIONARDO    DA    VINCI. 

"  So,  so,  master,"  said  the  Dominican, 
entering  the  room,  by  the  command  of  the 
Duke,  to  see  the  picture  conveyed  to  him. 
He  had  come  with  the  intention  of  working 
him  up  to  this  catastrophe,  but  it  was  un- 
necessary —  the  ungovernable  passions  of 
the  artist  had  anticipated  him.  "  So,  master 
Lionardo,  I  perceive  thou  art  possessed  of 
an  evil  spirit.  I  will  not  interrupt  thee  ;  "  — 
and  he  hastily  retired. 

Lionardo  awoke  from  the  delirium  of 
passion  to  a  consciousness  of  the  deed.  A 
feeling  of  self-reproach  came  over  hirri,  which 
was  even  more  poignant  than  his  fears  of 
the  vengeance  of  the  Prince.  It  was  his 
protector,  his  benefactor,  that  he  had  thus 
insulted.  "  What  have  I  done !  "  he  ex- 
claimed, as  he  gazed  upon  the  fragments, 
and  gathered  them  from  the  floor.  "  Those 
eyes  have  looked  upon  me  with  kindness  — 
those  colorless  lips  have  spoken  words  of 
friendship.  O,  my  Prince,  whatever  thou 
wert  to  others,  to  me  thou  wert  a  friend  and 
benefactor  !  "  and  his  teai-s  fell  fast  upon  the 
fragments  of  the  picture. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  messenger  came 
to  say  that  the  Duke  required  his  presence. 

Lionardo   trembled.  —  "I    may    not    call 


LIONARDO    DA    VINCI.  65 

on  thee,  Andrea,"  said  he,   "  I  have  sinned 
against  thy  precepts." 

With  faltering  steps  he  approached  the 
Duke,  whose  countenance  was  dark  and 
lowering.  Beside  him  stood  the  hated 
monk,  with  folded  hands  and  affected  hu- 
mility. 

"  What  have  you  done  with  my  portrait  ?  " 
exclaimed  the  Duke,  with  suppressed  passion. 

"  Destroyed  it !  "  replied  Lionardo,  with  a 
trembling  voice. 

"  And  why  ? "  said  the  Duke,  still  com- 
manding himself. 

"  It  was  the  feeling  of  his  own  worthless- 
ness,  sire,"  exclaimed  the  monk,  "  the  con- 
sciousness that  he  could  not  do  you  justice." 

"It  is  false  !  "  said  Lionardo. 

"  False  !  "  exclaimed  the  Duke,  approach- 
ing him,  his  face  pale  with  rage,  "  speak, 
what  was  thy  motive  ?  " 

"  Madness,"  answered  Lionardo,  firmly, 
"  madness,  and  want  of  self-command." 

The  Duke  stood  silent  for  a  moment.  — 
"  Whatever  was  the  cause,"  said  he,  "  per- 
haps you  have  done  well,  and  I  forgive  you 
if  you  accept  my  conditions." 

"  Name  them,  my  Prince,"  said  Lionardo, 
"  command  me  through  fire  and  water,  and 
5 


66  LIONARDO    DA    VINCI. 

you  shall  be  obeyed.  Make  me  undergo  any 
torments,  I  will  not  complain.  I  will  devote 
my  best  art,  day  and  night,  to  redeem  my 
crime,  and  to  render  myself  worthy  of  your 
goodness." 

"  Be  it  so,  then,"  said  the  Duke.  "  You 
shall  no  longer  have  yoiu"  attention  distracted 
by  the  things  of  this  world  ;  —  your  art  shall 
be  consecrated  to  holy  purposes.  The  re- 
fectory of  the  Dominican  cloister  needs  deco- 
ration, and  your  talent  shall  be  devoted  to 
this  work.  I  will  give  you  one  year  to  ac- 
complish it." 

The  Prior  was  astonished  at  the  calmness 
of  the  Duke  ;  he  had  expected  to  see  the 
storm  burst  and  overwhelm  the  artist :  he 
had  not  sufficiently  estimated  the  conse- 
quence, or  even  sanctity,  which  genius  be- 
stows on  its  possessor.  The  Florentine  was 
already  the  ornament  of  the  age,  and  com- 
manded the  respect  of  nations.  The  monk 
cast  a  malicious  glance  at  him.  Lionardo 
felt  its  force  ;  it  was  hard  for  him  to  be  shut 
up  with  such  a  man  a  whole  year,  and  to  be 
subject  to  the  petty  vexations  he  might  in- 
flict, and  to  which  he  knew  his  malice  was 
fully  equal.  But  he  determined  to  bear  with 
fortitude  the  evils  he  had  drawn  upon  him- 


LIONARDO    DA    VINCI.  67 

self,  and  to  labor  to  redeem  the  confidence  of 
his  patron.  Bat  what  subject  should  he 
select  ?  —  this  was  a  new  perplexity  ;  and 
months  passed  in  a  disordered  and  unhinged 
state  of  mind,  which  rendered  it  impossible 
for  him  either  to  conceive  or  execute  any 
work  of  art. 

One  day,  when  the  Passion  Week  had  just 
begun,  Lionardo  was  walking  in  the  beauti- 
ful gardens  near  Milan.  His  mind  was  pon- 
dering on  the  subject  of  his  painting.  The 
spring  had  already  awaked  the  young  blos- 
soms from  their  winter's  sleep,  and  the  trees 
and  hedges  were  crowned  with  the  fresh 
foliage  of  the  season.  "  I  will  paint  the 
scene  sacred  to  our  Lord  !  "  he  exclaimed,  — 
"  his  last  supper  with  his  disciples  —  would 
that  my  pencil  were  equal  to  the  subject !  " 

The  sun  was  just  setting  as  he  returned 
home,  his  mind  filled  with  the  vastness  of 
the  project.  Unconsciously  he  arrived  at  the 
cloister  of  the  Dominicans ;  the  pealing  tone^ 
of  the  organ  struck  upon  his  ear,  while  the 
lofty  roof  of  the  church  resounded  with  the 
chant  of  the  monks.  The  solemn  sound  had 
stilled  the  tumult  of  his  breast,  and  his  heart 
was  filled  with  gentle  and  deeply  religious 
emotions. 


68  LIONARDO     DA    VINCI. 

''  O  thou,"  he  cried,  "  who  died  for  the 
sius  of  the  human  nature,  which  is  so  sinful 
and  passionate  in  me,  —  how  shall  my  feeble 
hand  portray  thy  glory  !  How  shall  I  paint 
that  last  sorrowful  night  when  the  Apostles 
gathered  around  thee  !  " 

As  he  dwelt  on  the  subject,  it  gradually 
expanded  to  his  mind  ;  he  beheld  the  long 
table  and  the  Saviour  in  the  midst  of  his  dis- 
ciples —  the  last  rays  of  evening  shining  on 
his  head  —  a  mild  radiance  beaming  from  his 
eyes,  when  he  exclaimed,  "  Verily,  I  say 
unto  you,  one  of  you  shall  betray  me.  " 

And  with  what  beauty  did  the  group 
spring  to  light  under  the  pencil  inspired  by 
such  emotion  !  How  fresh  and  yet  how  soft 
the  coloring  !  BiU  it  was  indeed  an  arduous 
task.  Spring  had  come  round,  and  two  of 
the  heads  yet  remained  unfinished  —  the 
Saviour's  and  that  of  Judas,  —  the  one  be- 
cause his  soul  trembled  to  approach  it,  —  the 
other  because  the  beautiful  purity  of  his  own 
spirit  shrank  in  horror  from  the  task  of  por- 
traying fitly  such  a  visage. 

In  vain  Lionardo  sat  before  his  easel,  with 
liis  pencil  in  his  hand,  and  prayed  for  divine 
inspiration  to  paint  the  Saviour  of  the  world. 
His  touch  was  cold  and  formal ;    where  was 


LIONARDO    DA    VINCI.  69 

the  heavenly  benevolence  that  irradiated  his 
face  —  the  pitying  forgiveness  towards  the 
Apostle  who  he  knew  would  deny  him  —  the 
glance  of  divine  sorrow  unmixed  with  anger, 
which  he  cast  upon  his  betrayer  ?  And  the 
contrast  of  the  traitor,  hoAV  was  he  ever  to 
portray  it  worthily  ? 

The  last  week  arrived,  and  the  heads  were 
yet  unfinished. 

•'  Dost  thou  know  the  conditions  ? "  ex- 
claimed the  exulting  monk  —  "  success  or 
death ;  so  said  the  Duke,  and  his  word  is 
never  recalled." 

"  I  know  them  well,"  replied  Lionardo,  in 
a  despairing  tone. 

'•  Then  hasten  on  thy  work,"  said  the 
Dominican.  "  Is  life  so  worthless  that  thou 
canst  not  afford  a  daub  of  thy  brush  to  save 
it  ?  As  well  might  the  mighty  discovery  of 
painting  have  slumbered,  if  it  will  not  do 
thee  this  slight  service.  Come,  lend  me  thy 
brush  —  to-morrow  is  the  day — 1  will  fur- 
nish thee  with  a  head,  and  perhaps  it  may 
save  thine  own,"  fastening  upon  liim  a 
searching  glance,  with  a  flashing  expression 
of  conscious  power  and  triumph. 

"  Ha,"  exclaimed  Lionardo,  "  I  thank  thee, 
good  sir  Prior,  for  this  last  offer  —  thou  hast 
indeed  inspired  me." 


70  LIONARDO    DA    VINCI. 

He  hastened  to  the  refectory,  closed  and 
secured  the  door,  and  through  the  rest  of  that 
day,  and  the  whole  solitude  of  that  last 
night,  sat  almost  without  intermission  at  the 
glorious  work  which  has  immortalized  him. 
The  head  of  Judas  was  completed  before  the 
shades  of  night  came  on ;  but  that  of  the 
Saviour  still  remained.  There  was  the  beau- 
tiful oval  —  the  locks  parted  on  the  forehead 
—  but  all  else  of  the  face  was  a  blank.  He 
felt  the  task  beyond  his  power ;  yet  his 
generous  spirit  would  not  profane  his  own 
ideal,  nor  degrade  his  art,  by  an  unworthy 
performance. 

The  last  rays  of  the  sun  were  setting  ; 
he  turned  towards  the  west.  "  Andrea,"  he 
cried,  "  now  in  this  hour  of  my  last  extremi- 
ty of  despair  —  let  my  voice  reach  thee 
among  the  shades  of  the  palm-trees  of  para- 
dise !  " 

As  by  a  sudden  inspiration,  confidence 
took  possession  of  his  mind  —  celestial 
images  floated  before  his  imagination — the 
pealing  roof  seemed  to  ring  with  hosannas  — 
and  in  the  vacant  space  the  imagination  of 
the  painter  beheld  the  countenance,  the 
divine  countenance,  which  he  had  been  in 
vain  attempting  to  portray. 


LIONARDO    DA    VINCI.  71 

Once  more  he  seizes  his  brush  —  he  has 
only  to  follow  the  traits  impressed  forever  by 
that  single  vision-gleam  on  his  memory. 
Now,  indeed,  the  work  was  soon  completed. 

The  next  morning  Lionardo  did  not  make 
his  appearance,  nor  was  any  reply  returned 
to  the  applications  of  the  Prior  at  the  door  : 
it  was  the  day  on  which  the  picture  was  to 
be  exhibited,  and  his  remorseless  enemy  ex- 
ulted in  the  belief,  that,  in  his  despair,  he 
had  sought  the  fate  of  the  Judas  he  had 
found  himself  incompetent  to  depict. 

At  length  the  hour  arrived,  and  the  Duke 
Sforza,  accompanied  by  the  principal  nobility 
of  Milan,  proceeded  in  state  to  the  Dominican 
monastery,  and  gave  orders  that  the  refectory 
should  be  thrown  open.  The  picture,  which 
was  upon  the  wall  at  one  end,  was  concealed 
by  a  curtain  ;  and  the  artist  stood  with  his 
eyes  cast  down,  and  an  expression  of  deep 
dejection.  There  was  a  confused  murmur 
of  voices.  Curiosity  and  eager  expectation 
were  expressed  in  every  countenance  but 
that  of  the  Prior's ;  on  his  sat  triumphant 
revenge  ;  the  picture,  he  was  confident,  was 
unfinished  in  the  most  impoftant  figiues,  as 
he  had  himself  seen  it  so  on  the  preceding 
day. 


72  LIONARDO    DA    VINCI. 

"  Let  the  curtain  be  withdrawn,"  said  the 
Duke. 

Lionardo  moved  not — the  deep  emotion 
of  the  artist  rendered  him  powerless. 

The  Dominican,  unable  to  comprehend 
such  feelings,  was  confirmed  in  the  belief 
that  the  withdrawing  of  the  cmtain  would 
be  the  death-warrant  of  Lionardo ;  —  he 
hastily  seized  the  string,  and  by  a  sudden 
pull  the  curtain  opened,  and  the  Last  Supper 
of  Lionardo  da  Vinci  stood  revealed  to  the 
world. 

Not  a  sound  for  a  few  moments  broke  the 
stillness  that  prevailed :  at  length  murmurs 
of  applause  were  heard,  increasing,  as  the 
influence  of  the  glorious  work  fell  fuller  upon 
the  eirthusiastic  minds  of  the  Italians,  to 
raptures.  The  Duke  arose  and  stood  before 
Lionardo.  "  Well,  noble  Florentine,  hast 
thou  atoned  for  thy  fault  ;  I  am  proud  to 
forgive  thee  all.  On  —  on,  to  glory,  to  im- 
mortality—  high  rewards  shall  be  thine. 
But  why,  holy  father,"  said  he  to  the  Prior, 
who  still  stood  motionless  and  pale,  before 
the  pictiue  —  "why  stand  you  speechless 
there  —  see  you  not  how  nobly  he  has  re- 
deemed his  pledge  ? " 

All  eyes  were  turned  upon  the  Dominican 


LIONARDO    DA    VINCI. 


73 


—  then  to  the  figure  of  Judas.  Suddenly 
they  exclaimed,  with  one  voice,  "It  is  he! 
it  is  he  !  " 

The  brothers  and  monks  of  the  cloister, 
who  detested  the  Prior,  repeated — "  Yes,  it 
is  he  —  the  Judas  Iscariot  who  betrayed  his 
master !  " 

After  the  first  surprise  was  over,  suppress- 
ed laughter  was  heard.  Pale  with  rage,  the 
Dominican  retreated  behind  the  crowd,  and 
made  his  escape  to  his  cell,  with  the  emo- 
tions of  a  demon  quelled  before  the  radiant 
power  of  an  angel's  divinity,  and  the  reflec- 
tion that  henceforth  he  must  go  down  to 
posterity  as  a  second  Judas !  The  resem- 
blance was  perfect. 

And  where  now  was  Lionardo  da  Vinci  — 
he  who  stood  conspicuous  among  the  nobles 
of  the  land — he  whose  might  of  genius  had 
cast  high  birth  and  worldly  honors  into  ob- 
scurity ?  Now,  surely,  was  the  hour  of  his 
triumph ! 

Alas,  no  !  he  stood  humbled  and  depress- 
ed; bitter  tears  bedewed  his  cheeks  ;  and 
when  the  cry  was  repeated  again  and  again, 
"It  is  the  Prior!"  he  hastily  quitted  the 
presence  of  the  Duke,  and  in  the  solitude  of 
his  own  apartment,  on  his  knees,  in  an  agony 


74  LIONARDO    DA    VINCI. 

of  repentance,  "O  Andrea,  my  master!"  he 
exclaimed,  "  how  have  I  sinned  against  thy 
memory,  our  art,  and  my  own  soul !  I  have 
sinned,  I  have  sinned  !  It  was  a  sacrilege  — 
in  the  same  hour  in  which  thou  didst  answer 
my  prayer  with  the  blessed  inspiration  of 
the  vision  of  the  Redeemer  !  I  am  unwor- 
thy of  thy  love,  of  thy  divine  art,  and  of  my 
own  respect.  '  Revenge  can  have  no  part  in 
a  great  mind,'  was  thy  last  precept — how 
much  better  didst  thou  know  me  than  I 
knew  myself!  Strengthen  and  guide,  hence- 
forth, my  weak  and  sinful  nature." 

Such  were  the  emotions  of  the  artist, 
while  all  Milan  and  Italy  rang  with  the  fame 
of  the  work  which  he  himself  so  bitterly 
repented.  All  flocked  to  see  it,  and  his  re- 
nown Avas  at  its  zenith.  He  shunned  the 
applause,  and  in  a  humble  spirit  devoted 
himself  to  the  pursuit  of  a  nobler  triumph 
than  he  had  already  achieved  —  the  triumph 
over  himself. 

This  is  the  history  of  that  celebrated  paint- 
ing, the  Last  Supper  of  Lionardo  da  Vinci, 
which  is  familiar  to  all,  from  the  innumera- 
ble copies  distributed  through  every  civilized 
country,  by  the  pencil  and  the  burin.  It  is 
commonly  understood  to  be  a  fresco ;  but  it 


LIONARDO    DA    VINCI. 


75 


is  not.  It  was  painted  on  the  dry  plastering, 
with  the  use  of  distilled  oils,  in  a  manner 
invented  by  Lionardo.  This  circumstance 
has  caused  its  decay.  It  is  still  in  the  re- 
fectory of  the  Dominican  convent,  at  Milan ; 
though,  having  sustained  much  injury  from 
ill  usage,  especially  when  the  convent  was 
occupied  by  French  troops  at  the  close  of 
the  last  century,  it  gives  the  traveller  now 
but  an  indistinct  idea  of  its  original  glory. 


Lionardo  da  Vinci,  in  1520,  visited  France, 
in  consequence  of  the  pressing  solicitation  of 
the  noble  and  chivalric  Francis  I.  His 
health  was  feeble,  and  the  king  often  came 
to  see  him  at  Fontainbleau. 

One,  day  when  he  entered,  Lionardo  rose 
up  in  his  bed  to  receive  him,  but  in  the 
effort,  fainted  from  excess  of  weakness. 
Francis  hastened  to  support  him,  but  the 
eyes  of  the  artist  had  closed  forever;  and 
Lionardo  lay  encircled  in  the  arms  of  the 
monarch. 

This  sketch  was  published  in  1826.  For  some  parts  re- 
lating to  "  The  Last  Supper,"  the  author  was  indebted  to  a 
German  legend  ;  also  to  a  German  Tragedy  for  some  ideas 
in  the  life  of  Corregio. 


MICHELANGELO. 


The  shades  of  evening  were  mantling  the 
Castle  of  Caprese ;  already  its  base  was 
buried  in  darkness,  while  the  last  rays  of 
light  still  rested  on  its  towers,  giving  an 
air  of  mysterious  grandem*  to  the  venerable 
pile.  On  a  projecting  crag,  that  hung  over 
the  deep  river  below,  distinguished  from  the 
dark  foliage  only  by  the  few  gleams  of  light 
reflected  from  its  surface,  sat  a  pale  melan- 
choly boy.  Sometimes  he  leaned  fearlessly 
forward,  as  if  to  catch  the  sound  of  the  dis- 
tant water-fall,  or  of  the  soft  rippling  of  the 
wave ;  then  his  eye  turned  to  the  ivy-clad 
tower?.  As  he  looked,  turret  after  turret 
gradually  disappeared,  till  only  one  lingering 
ray  remained  on  the  loftiest  tower,  and  the 
building  stood  dark  and  frowning,  an  undis- 
tinguishable  mass,  with  only  its  bold  outline 
visible. 


MICHELANGELO.  77 

''  Home  of  my  Fathers  !  "  he  exclaimedj 
"abode  of  my  ancestors!  These  halls  have 
once  been  thronged  by  fair  ladies,  and  noble 
knis-hts  ;  now  how  deserted  and  forlorn  ! 
Well  does  the  gloom  that  surrounds  it 
shadow  forth  its  history  ;  and  yet,"  he  con- 
tinued with  animation,  "one  ray,  one  glori- 
ous ray  lingers  long  on  its  summit.  Desola- 
tion and  ruin  may  hover  round  its  base,  but 
hght  and  glory  shall  yet  rest  on  its  towers." 

Slowly  he  arose  and  bent  his  steps  towards 
the  ancient  pile.  There  was  nothing  of  the 
springing  elasticity  of  youth  and  boyhood  ; 
his  movements  were  measured  and  dignified 
and  well  corresponded  with  the  thoughtful- 
ness  that  sat  upon  his  brow. 

As  he  entered  the  hall  of  the  castle,  he 
met  his  father  who  had  been  anxiously  ex- 
pecting him. 

'•  Welcome,  my  son,"  said  he  in  a  tone  of 
mingled  grief  and  reproach.  "It  is  not  well 
for  thee  to  tempt  the  night  air  ;  Avherc  hast 
thou  been  thus  long  ?  " 

"  Part  of  my  time  has  been  passed  at 
the  village  of  Settiniano,  and  in  wandering 
among  its  quarries  of  marble." 

"  And  the  other  part  ?  " 

The  youth   hesitated.     The  father   arose. 


78  MICHELANGELO. 

"  All  that  remains  to  me  now,"  he  exclaim- 
ed, "  is  my  son.  To  him  I  look  for  the 
solace  as  well  as  brightness  of  my  closing 
life.  Ah  !  shall  it  be  that  I  am  to  see  him 
degraded  by  base  associations,  and  the  pre- 
dictions  of  astrologers  proved  false  ?  " 

"  What  is  it  you  fear,  father  ? "  said  the 
youth,  calmly  interrupting  him. 

"  I  have  been  told,  that  your  foster  sister, 
Caterina,  is  called  fair.  Can  it  be,  my  son, 
that  you  have  suffered  yourself  to  be  capti- 
vated by  this  village  beauty  ?  " 

"Is  it  of  Michelangelo,"  exclaimed  the 
youth,  his  dark  eyes  flashing,  "  that  you  ask 
this  question  ?  of  him  who  is  captivated  by 
the  arts  ?  " 

"  How,  then,  and  where,"  said  Ludovico, 
"  do  you  pass  day  after  day  ?  " 

''  In  the  house  of  my  foster-father.  He  is  a 
sculptor,  and  his  work-shop  is  filled  with  the 
implements  of  his  art,  and  a  few  noble  speci- 
mens of  ancient  sculpture  :  it  is  there  I  have 
exercised  the  chisel,  and  truly  the  days  are 
too  short." 

"  I  cannot  suffer  my  son,"  said  the  proud 
Ludovico,  "  to  disgrace  himself  by  a  mechan- 
ical employment  taken  from  the  low  horn. 
Know  you  not  tlie  high  destiny  to  which 
you  are  ordained  ?  " 


MICHELANGELO.  ,  79 

"  I  feel  it,"  replied  the  youth,  with 
solemnity. 

"  Thou  mayst  read  it,"  returned  the  fa- 
ther. "  This  parchment  contains  the  horo- 
scope of  thy  nativity.  Retire  to  thine  own 
apartment,  and  study  it  well.  Thou  wilt 
then  perceive  that  thy  days  are  not  to  be 
passed  in  employments  that  befit  the  peas- 
ants of  Settiniano." 

The  youth  took  the  parchment  and  sought 
his  solitary  apartment,  situated  in  the  highest 
turret  of  the  castle.  Here,  perched  like  an 
eagle  on  its  nest,  he  was  accustomed  to 
watch  the  clouds  as  they  rolled  majestically 
along,  or  were  heaped  in  masses  against  the 
azure  sky.  Frequently,  to  his  imagination, 
they  assumed  the  shape  of  gigantic  rocks, 
and  of  giant  banditti  starting  from  behind 
them.  The  window  overlooked  the  hills 
and  vallies  of  Tuscany,  which  were  now 
veiled  in  darkness,  except  where  a  ray  of 
light  streamed  through  the  parting  clouds, 
and  yet  rested  on  the  bosom  of  the  wander- 
ing Arno.  With  intense  interest  he  unrolled 
the  parchment,  and,  trimming  his  antique 
lamp,  read  the  following  document : — 

"  Near  the  convent  of  St.   Francis,  in  the 
Castle  of  Caprese,  on  the  sixth  day  of  March, 


80  MICHELANGELO. 

and  at  the  eighth  hour  of  the  Sabbath  even- 
ing, was  born  a  boy,  to  whom  his  father,  as 
if  by  the  inspiration  of  heaven,  gave  the  name 
of  Michelangelo,  implying  that  the  child  was 
destined  to  divine  works.  The  horoscope  of 
his  nativity  confirmed  the  idea;  for  it  was 
found  that  the  conjunction  of  Mercury  and 
Venus  took  place  at  that  time,  and  that  they 
were  received  into  the  house  of  Jupiter  with 
a  benign  aspect ;  which  fully  demonstrates 
that  the  boy,  by  his  genius  and  skill,  will 
produce  wonderful  and  stupendous  works  of 
art."  * 

The  young  Michelangelo  threw  the  docu- 
ment aside. 

"  What,"  he  exclaimed,  "  are  the  predic- 
tions of  astrologers  ?  what  the  ambitious  ten- 
derness of  a  parent,  if  the  inspiration  be  not 
here  ?  "  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart. 
It  throbbed  with  almost  supernatural  force  ; 
he  arose,  and  threw  open  the  casement  for 
air  ;  he  panted  as  if  the  narrow  confines  of 
the  body  could  hardly  contain  the  soul.  Just 
above  the  highest  mountain,  the  beautiful 
planet  Mars  shone  with  unusual  lustre  ;  but 
Venus,  the  other  star  of  his  nativity,  was  no 

*  For  the  original  of  this  document,  see  Vasari,  Vita  di 
Michelaguolo. 


MICHELANGELO.  81 

where  to  be  found.  Was  this  too  an  omen 
of  his  future  life  ? 

By  degrees  his  mind  returned  to  a  calm 
and  natural  state ;  and  he  once  more  sought 
the  presence  of  his  father. 

They  sat  together  over  their  evening  re- 
past of  bread  and  Tuscan  grapes,  and  the 
heart  of  Ludovico  grew  lighter  as  he  looked 
in  the  face  of  his  boy.  There  were  none  of 
the  gentle  lineaments  of  his  now  angel 
mother,  but  there  was  the  noble  bearing  of 
undaunted  truth,  and  of  unextinguishable 
genius.  A  smile  played  over  the  counte- 
nance of  Ludovico  as  he  exclaimed,  "  Thou 
art  an  idle  boy  to  spend  thy  days  in  wander- 
ing among  the  quarries  of  Settiniano." 

"Is  he  idle,"  replied  the  boy,  "whose 
mind  is  filled  with  conceptions  for  the  fu- 
ture ? " 

"  It  ill  becomes  one  of  the  Canossa  line  to 
pass  day  after  day,  in  hewing  stone." 

A  slight  curve  of  the  lip  expressed  the 
feelings  of  the  young  Buonaroti.  "  Father," 
said  he,  "  it  is  only  in  our  dark  age  of  Italy, 
that  sculpture  has  been  considered  a  mechan- 
ical employment,  fit  only  for  hirelings  and 
slaves.  Among  the  Greeks,  an  artist  might 
be  a  legislator,  a  statesman,  or  the  com- 
6 


82  MICHELANGELO. 

mander  of  armies  ;  and  the  time  is  not  far 
distant  when  a  second  Phidias  shall  transfer 
the  age  of  Pericles  to  our  own  Etruria. 
What  Donatello  has  begun,  another  will  be 
found  to  complete." 

"No  doubt,"  said  Lndovico,  "there  are 
many  with  muscles  and  limbs  that  fit  them 
for  such  an  employment.  It  is  highly  cred- 
itable to  thy  foster-father.  But  thou,  my 
son,  hast  thou  studied  the  horoscope  of  thy 
nativity  ?  " 

"  If  there  is  truth  in  this  parchment,"  said 
Michelangelo,  "  I  am  destined  to  perform 
wonderful  works.  Place  me  with  Domenico 
Ghirlandajo,  and  let  Sculpture  and  Painting 
contend  for  the  victory." 

Ludovico  perceiving  that  it  would  be  use- 
less to  oppose  his  son's  inclinations,  at  length 
consigned  him  to  the  care  of  Ghirlandajo, 
with  an  indefinite  feeling  that  he  was  born 
to  an  extraordinary  destiny. 

Here  Michelangelo  had  the  courage  and 
skill  to  correct  some  of  his  master's  works  j 
and  was  regarded  as  a  youth,  whose  opinion 
had  no  little  authority.  Yet,  even  at  this 
early  age,  he  was  perhaps  more  feared  than 
loved.  His  mind  seemed  concentrated  upon 
tlie  pursuits  of  art,  and  he  never  mingled  in 


MICHELANGELO.  83 

the  boyish  sports  of  his  companions.  He 
was  one  day  busily  employed,  when  a  stran- 
ger entered  the  school,  and,  after  carefully 
scrutinizing  the  works  of  the  scholars,  at 
length  approached  Michelangelo.  There 
was  but  little  in  the  stranger's  appearance  to 
excite  ciu-iosity ;  yet  genius  has  an  intuitive 
sympathy  with  genius.  He  spoke  to  the 
youth,  examined  his  work,  and  then,  turning 
to  Domenico,  said,  "  By  yoiu:  leave,  I  select 
this  youth  for  the  garden  of  St.  Mark.  Will 
it  accord  with  his  views  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  replied  Ghirlandajo,  significantly, 
"  do  you  think  the  eagle  does  not  ken  his 
eyry  ?  " 

Personal  beauty  is  naturally  connected 
with  the  epithet  "  Magnificent  "  attached  to 
Lorenzo's  name,  but  historians  do  not  ascribe 
it  to  him.  He  is  said  to  have  been  tall  and 
robust  in  his  figure,  but  not  symmetrical : 
his  sight  was  weak,  his  voice  harsh  and  un- 
pleasing.  Over  his  whole  bearing,  however, 
was  thrown  an  air  of  dignity,  and,  when  en- 
gaged in  conversation,  his  countenance  was 
lighted  up  from  within. 

Michelangelo  fixed  his  eyes  upon  him,  and 
the  stranger  seemed  perfectly  to  understand 
their  language  of  silent  homage,  to  which  ht 
was  so  much  accustomed  in  others. 


84  MICHELANGELO. 

When  he  had  left  the  place,  Buonaroti 
asked  of  those  near,  "  who  the  noble  stranger 
might  be  ?  " 

"  Do  you  not  know  the  Duke,"  they  re- 
plied '•  Lorenzo  de'  Medici  ?  " 

"  I  did  not,"  replied  the  youth,  "  but 
henceforth  we  shall  know  each  other.' ^ 

The  gardens  of  Lorenzo,  so  celebrated  in 
history,  were  near  the  monastery  of  St. 
Mark.  The  school  was  then  under  the 
care  of  the  venerable  Bartoldo ;  and  here 
Buonaroti  not  only  became  conspicuous  for 
his  wonderful  talents,  but  was  taught  a  pain- 
ful lesson,  often  repeated  to  him  in  after  life, 
of  the  ungovernable  bitterness  of  envy,  when, 
after  long  rankling  in  a  fellow  artist's  breast, 
it  at  length  breaks  forth  into  open  hostility. 
.  Torrigiano  was  likewise  a  pupil  of  the 
school.  Both  were  zealous  in  their  occupa- 
tions, and  eager  to  distinguish  themselves  in 
the  eyes  of  their  great  patron.  The  task 
had  been  assigned  them  of  modeling  some 
figures  in  clay.  Torrigiano  having  first 
finished  and  exhibited  his,  was  invited  by 
Michelangelo  to  see  how  he  had  succeeded. 
Torrigiano  looked  upon  the  work  of  his 
young  fellow-student  with  astonishment,  and 
at  once  perceived  in  it,  indications  of  power 


MICHELANGELO.  8S 

which  was  to  throw  him  into  obscurity. 
With  an  impulse  that  appears  like  insanity, 
he  seized  one  of  the  tools,  and  struck  him  a 
violent  blow  on  the  face,  of  which  the  scar 
remained  through  his  life.  Such  an  outrage 
could  not  remain  unpunished,  and  he  was 
expelled  from  Florence.* 

Lorenzo  conceived  for  the  young  Buona- 
roti  the  warmest  friendship,  and  delighted 
to  furnish  him  with  subjects.  "  How  beau- 
tiful is  this  Faun,"  said  Lorenzo,  looking  at 
a  head  which  the  artist  had  rapidly  sketched 
on  a  pannel  —  "  how  perfect  would  it  be,  so 
well  done  in  marble."  Michelangelo  took 
the  hint,  and  executed  the.  figure  in  stone, 
to  the  astonishment  of  Lorenzo,  who  ex- 
claimed, "  How  is  it  possible,  that  at  this 
early  age  you  have  thus  learned  to  handle 
the  chisel !  " 

"My  Lord,"  replied  the  artist,  "I  imbibed 
sculpture  with  my  nurse's  milk  !  " 

*  The  melancholy  history  of  Torrigiano  perhaps  may 
suggest  the  idea  that  there  was  a  vein  of  insanity  in  his 
whole  life.  His  violent  and  impatient  spirit  drew  upon 
him  the  observation  of  the  Inquisition  in  Spain,  where  he 
finally  repaired.  He  was  sent  from  one  prison  to  another, 
and  at  last  was  condemned  to  death  as  a  heretic ;  but  happi- 
ly his  life  closed  before  the  sentence  was  executed. 

Vasari,  vol.  5.    Vila  di  Torrigiano. 


86  MICHELANGELO. 

*'  There  is  a  defect,  however,"  said  Lo- 
renzo, smiling  ;  "  your  Faim  has  ranged  the 
woods  for  centuries,  yet  has  the  teeth  of 
youth." 

Michelangelo,  struck  with  the  justness  of 
the  remark,  immediately  broke  out  some  of 
the  teeth,  and  mutilated  others,  so  as  to  give 
the  appearance  of  age. 

While  Michelangelo  was  increasing  in  the 
grandeur  of  his  conceptions,  cherished,  and, 
what  was  yet  more  important,  appreciated  by 
Lorenzo,  a  terrible  blow  was  impending  over 
him. 

Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  whose  name,  even  to 
this  remote  period,  is  encircled  by  the  halo 
of  taste  and  science,  who  reigned  in  the  re- 
public of  Florence  with  supremacy,  which 
hereditary  monarchs  have  vainly  sought  — 
because  his  empire  was  that  of  the  mind  — 
Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,  whose  patronage  of 
the  arts  is  one  of  the  most  important  eras  in 
Italian  history,  was  suddenly  called  from 
earth,  and  removed  to  a  brighter  sphere. 

While  the  Italian  world  was  in  tears, 
Michelangelo  shed  none.  Dark  and  silent 
was  his  sorrow.  It  was  long  before  he  gave 
utterance  to  his  grief  Then  he  exclaimed, 
"  What  is  this  great  world  to  me  ?    no  one 


MICHELANGELO. 


87 


now  knows  me  or  feels  for  me.  I  am  as 
well  understood  by  the  block  I  chisel,  as 
by  the  beings  around  me.  I  will  quit  this 
place  of  forms  and  rules.  I  will  go  back  to 
the  Castle  of  Caf  rese.  There  at  least  I  may 
find  sympathy  in  the  grand  and  sublime  ob- 
jects of  nature.  The  sky,  the  mountains, 
the  rivers  and  the  ocean  ;  whirlwinds  and 
tempests,  speak  of  him  who  created  them ; 
but  man,  man !  who  has  so  perverted  the 
image  of  the  Deity  —  my  soul  has  no  com- 
munion with  him.  With  one  only  it  claimed 
affinity,  and  the  loss  of  that  one,  the  friend 
of  virtue,  of  worth,  I  will  mourn  in  solitude." 

The  violence  done  him  by  Torrigiano, 
of  which  he  was  constantly  reminded  by  the 
unfortunate  scar,  made  a  lasting  impression 
on  his  feelings,  and  for  a  time  created  in  him 
a  degree  of  misanthropy  towards  his  fellow- 
men. 

In  the  beautiful  woods  of  Arezzo,  Michel- 
angelo found  the  consolation  and  divine  sup- 
port his  spiritual  nature  sought.  Contempla- 
tion* was  his  daily  food.  There  he  phuiged 
into  the  invisible  depths  of  thought,  and 
thence  took  a  bolder  flight.  The  divinity 
stirred  within  him  ;  new  creations  rose  to  his 
mind.    As  Adam  walked  with  God  in  the  gar- 


88  MICHELANGELO. 

den  of  Eden,  so  here,  —  he  wrote  of  himself 
to  his  friend  Vasari,  —  "  Here  I  am  fed  with 
angels'  food.  The  thunder  speaks  to  my  esir 
with  the  voice  of  ages ;  the  winds  come 
rushing  with  almighty  power.  They  talk  of 
nature ;  and  what  is  nature  but  the  spirit  of 
God,  filling  man  with  inspiration?  what 
beauty,  but  the  weed  in  which  he  dresses 
the  soul  he  has  created  ?  Mine  possesses  a 
spiritual  life,  which  seeks  not  its  aliment 
from  the  earth.  It  would  live  in  the  infinite, 
the  invisible.  I  am  surrounded  by  what  the 
world  calls  natural  beauty,  spread  out  before 
me  in  the  Val  d'Arno  and  on  the  vine  cover- 
ed hills  of  Tuscany.  I  look  not  upon  them. 
My  soul  seeks  its  enjoyment  in  the  being 
from  whom  it  emanates.  It  quits  the  low 
scenes  of  earth,  and  rises  to  the  great  First 
Cause.  At  times,  I  lose  my  own  identity, 
and  feel  as  if  I  were  absorbed  in  the  supreme 
invisible."  When  time  had  softened  his 
sorrow  for  Lorenzo's  death,  he  resumed  his 
former  occupations. 

Ludovico  began  to  discover  that  his"  son 
would  find  the  path  to  that  greatness  predict- 
ed by  his  horoscope :  he  no  longer  chid  his 
late  wanderings,  but  suffered  him  to  pursue 
his  eccentric  coiurse  unmolested. 


MICHELANGELO,  89 

Pietro  de'  Medici  succeeded  Lorenzo,  in- 
heriting from  his  predecessor  a  love  for  the 
fine  arts,  but  without  his  knowledge  or  judg- 
ment. It  became  his  earnest  wish  to  engage 
Michelangelo  in  his  service.  He  knew  that 
he  had  collected  many  valuable  antiquities ; 
that  it  had  been  the  recreation  of  his  leisure 
hours  to  study  the  gems  of  art,  the  intaglios 
and  medals,  which  Lorenzo  had  collected. 
Pietro  wished  him  to  take  care  of  his  cabi- 
nets, and,  above  all,  he  was  desirous  of 
possessing  a  work  of  Michelangelo,  that 
should  be  made  exclusively  for  himself. 
Fortune  favored  his  puerile  fancy.  There 
fell  an  uncommon  quantity  of  snow  at 
Florence,  and  he  entreated  of  Buonaroti  to 
raise  a  statue  from  it  in  his  court-yard.  It 
may  be  interesting  to  inquire,  why  the  artist 
consented.  Perhaps  from  the  generous  pleas- 
ure of  gratifying  the  son  of  his  regretted 
friend;  perhaps  he  wished  to  convince  the 
Florentines  that  grandeur  of  effect  is  inde- 
pendent of  the  materials.  Whatever  were 
his  reasons,  he  did  consent  to  figure  as 
an  Improvisatore  in  sculpture.  A  gigantic 
statue  was  raised,  and,  for  the  three  days 
during  which  it  lasted,  attracted  crowds  of 
admirers. 


90  MICHELANGELO. 

It  is  likewise  evident  that  Bnonaroti  had 
a  higher  motive  in  view,  than  the  desire  of 
.giving  specimens  of  sculpture,  architecture  or 
painting  to  Florence.  He  wished  to  excite 
a  general  emulation  and  enthusiasm  for  the 
arts ;  and  probably  this  was  the  great  secret 
of  the  statue  of  snow,  upon  which  so  many 
conjectures  have  been  hazarded. 

He  consented  to  remain  with  Pietro,  de- 
voting himself  to  the  culture  of  his  own 
taste,  as  well  as  to  the  service  of  his  patron. 
He  was  often  the  Duke's  counselor  also,  and 
endeavored  to  restrain  his  excessive  prodi- 
gality. But  Pietro's  folly  and  imprudence 
at  length  despised  restraint,  and  so  incensed 
the  people  that  he  was  expelled  from  Flor- 
ence in  the  year  1494. 

Michelangelo,  foreseeing  the  calamities 
which  were  impending  over  the  city,  deter- 
mined to  repair  to  Bologna ;  but  he  was  still 
young,  new  to  the  world,  unacquainted  with 
its  forms,  and,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  un- 
provided with  money.  When  he  arrived  at 
Bologna,  his  passport  was  demanded.  He 
had  neglected  to  provide  himself  with  one, 
and,  not  complying  with  the  forms  of  law, 
was  conducted  to  prison  as  a  suspected 
person. 


MICHELANGELO.  91 

The  horror  of  that  night,  he  has  feelingly- 
described  in  a  letter  to  one  of  his  cotempora- 
ries.  Probably  his  emotions  were  partly  ex- 
cited by  the  troubles  at  Florence,  from  which 
he  fled,  and  by  a  degree  of  fever  and  indispo- 
sition under  which  he  was  laboring.  He 
thus  describes  it :  — 

"  Never  shall  I  forget  that  night :  I  was  put 
into  a  solitary  cell  where  criminals  are  con- 
fined, the  ladder  drawn  up,  the  trap-door 
closed,  and  I  was  left  in  total  darkness.  My 
brain  seemed  on  fire  :  sometimes  there  was  a 
supernatural  glare  of  light  before  my  eyes ; 
then  it  was  succeeded  by  impenetrable  dark- 
ness, which  seemed  to  have  a  material  sub- 
stance, pressing  upon  my  respiration.  Once  I 
felt  as  if  the  walls  of  my  prison  were  closing 
in,  and  I  was  gradually  to  be  crushed  be- 
tween them.  To  this  night  I  owe,  in  some 
degree,  my  conceptions  of  the  last  judgment." 

When  morning  came,  he  was  permitted  to 
behold  the  light  of  day,  but  found  he  could 
not  regain  his  liberty,  except  by  paying  a  fine 
which  was  far  beyond  his  means.  Fortu- 
nately, Messer  Giovan  Aldrovandi  visited 
the  prison,  and  hearing  the  circumstances, 
immediately  effected  his  release,  and  took 
him  to  his   own    house.     It   appears  that  he 


92 


MICHELANGELO. 


did  not  know  his  guest.  Soon  after,  being 
conducted  by  Aldrovandi  to  see  the  arch  of 
St.  Domenico,  and  observing  a  figure  want- 
ing, he  offered  to  supply  it.  When  com- 
pleted, it  was  the  most  perfect  of  the  whole, 
and  Lionardo  da  Vinci  happening  to  be  at 
Bologna  at  the  time,  so  soon  as  he  saw  it, 
pronounced  it  to  be  the  work  of  the  young 
Michelangelo,  and  thus  Aldrovandi  learned 
that  the  kind  office  he  had  performed  to  a 
stranger  was  to  find  its  reward  in  the  friend- 
ship of  Buonaroti. 

He  remained  at  Bologna  a  year,  always 
residing  in  the  house  of  Aldrovandi,  who 
took  great  delight  in  his  society,  and  in  hear- 
ing him  read  the  works  of  Dante,  Petrarch 
and  Boccaccio.  When  the  troubles  in  Florence 
were  in  some  measm-e  calmed,  and  the  Med- 
ici family  returned  to  Florence,  Michelangelo 
took  leave  of  Aldrovandi,  and  returned  to  the 
land  of  his  affections.  He  had  never  been 
happy  at  Bologna. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  he  amused  himself 
with  practising  a  deception  upon  the  anti- 
quarians ;  who,  not  content  with  bestowing 
due  praise  upon  the  works  of  ancient  art, 
were  eternally  grubbing  in  old  holes,  and 
extolling  whatever  they  found  there,  as  supe- 


MICHELANGELO.  93 

rior  to  all  which  modern  times  had  produced. 
He  made  a  statue  of  a  sleeping  Cupid ;  and, 
having  cut  off  one  of  its  arms,  and  slightly 
disfigured  it,  buried  it  where  it  was  likely  to 
be  come  at  by  the  virtuosi.  It  was  accord- 
ingly discovered,  and  lauded  as  a  master- 
piece of  ancient  genius,  which  modern  skill 
could  not  equal  —  until  Michelangelo,  pro- 
ducing the  arm,  claimed  the  statue  as  his 
own,  and  compelled  the  critics  to  allow,  that 
merit  was  not  confined  to  antiquity. 

It  has  been  said  of  hand-writing  that  it  is 
expressive  of  the  character.  How  much 
more  justly  may  this  observation  be  applied 
to  the  arts  of  Sculpture  and  Painting.  The 
works  of  Michelangelo  are  perfectly  charac- 
teristic of  himself.  He  was  unequalled  in 
the  fearless  grandeur  of  his  conceptions,  con- 
sidering actual  beauty  as  a  weed,  (to  use  his 
own  expression,)  in  comparison  with  the  sub- 
lime ideal  he  had  formed ;  and  so  wholly 
absorbed  in  the  loftiness  of  that  idea  as  to 
lose  sight  of  those  graces  which  are  essen- 
tial to  perfection.  In  later  life,  as  a  subse- 
([ucnt  sonnet  proves,  he  seems  to  have  felt 
more  tenderness  for  such  beauty  as  he  found, 
and  considered  it  as  a  medium  through  which 
the  soul  might  rise  to  its  Creator.     It  was  an 


94  MICHELANGELO. 

essential  error  in  him  to  suppose'  that  nature 
can  be  divested  of  any  of  its  perfections  and 
retain  its  harmony.  Of  none  could  it  be 
said  more  justly  than  of  him,  that,  "  possessed 
himself  by  a  heroic  passion,  he  used  matter 
as  symbols  of  it." 

The  seal-ring,  which  he  always  wore, 
seemed  to  be  a  part  of  himself ;  neither  the 
beauty  of  the  intaglio  nor  the  costliness  of 
it,  accounts  for  the  value  he  set  upon  it.  It 
was  a  gift  of  friendship  from  Lorenzo  de' 
Medici. 

The  artist  had  to  contend  with  Lionardo 
da  Vinci  for  the  Sculptor's  palm.  A  large 
block  of  marble  had  been  placed  in  the  hands 
of  Simon  da  Fiesole,  from  which  he  had  begun 
to  chisel  a  giant  ■  but  wholly  failing  in  his 
attempt,  he  gave  the  matter  up,  and  it  was 
determined  that  this  valuable  block,  which 
had  been  laid  aside  for  a  number  of  yesirs, 
should  be  brought  into  use.  It  was  first 
offered  to  Lionardo  ;  but,  after  examining  it, 
he  declined  the  task,  and  said  that  the  work 
could  not  be  executed  Avithout  additional 
])ieces,  it  had  already  been  so  much  injiu-ed. 
Michelangelo  was  the  man  whose  skill  was 
adequate  to  adapting  conception  and  execu- 
tion to  the  material  which  was  offered,  and 


MICHELANGELO.  95 

he  did  not  hesitate  to  undertake  the  work. 
From  this  block  he  executed  the  colossal 
statue  of  David,  and  so  accommodated  his 
idea  to  the  shape  of  the  mass,  as  to  leave 
some  of  his  predecessor's  work  untouched  ; 
which  gave  rise  to  the  observation,  that 
'^  Michelangelo  had  raised  the  dead."  * 

After  the  statue  was  completed,  a  difficulty 
arose  how  it  should  be  conducted  to  the  des- 
tined place  without  injury.  By  the  contri- 
vance of  two  brother  architects,  a  tower- 
shaped  frame  was  made,  to  the  roof  of  which 
the  figure  was  suspended  in  a  manner  to 
vibrate  at  every  inclination,  and  it  was  thus 
successfully  transported. 

"  The  nose  is  too  large,"  observed  Soder- 
ini,  who  aff'ected  to  be  a  critic.  Michelangelo 
ascended  the  steps  with  an  instrument,  and 
after  pretending  to  work  upon  the  face,  and 
blowing  about  some  dust  which  he  had 
secretly  taken  with  him,  exclaimed,  "■  How 
is  it  now? " 

''  Excellent,"  said  Soderini,  and  the  artist 
suffered  him  to  enjoy  his  opinion,  but  said 
afterwards  that  "  Sodcrini's  was  about  "as 
good  as  most  criticism." 

Michelangelo  deeply  deplored  the  unhappy 

♦  "  Far  risuscilare  uno  che  era  mono." — VASAni. 


96  MICHELANGELO. 

State  of  Florence.  The  lines  written  by  him 
under  the  figure  of  Night,  are  expressive  of 
the  state  of  his  feelings.  Though  the  softer 
elements  of  his  character  had  not  been  fos- 
tered by  maternal  kindness,  there  was  not 
wanting  a  deep  spring  of  sensibility,  which 
circumstances  sometimes  caused  to  overflow. 
Under  the  celebrated  statue  of  Night,  which 
had  been  intended  for  the  tomb  of  the  Medici, 
Baptista  Strozzi  wrote  the  following  lines  :  — 

Night,  v'hora  thou  seest  so  calmly  sleeping 

Was  by  an  Angel  formed. 

Though  by  this  marble  held  iu  keeping, 

By  life  the  figure's  warmed. 

Yet,  should  thy  mind  of  doubt  partake, 

Thou  need's!  but  speak,  and  she  '11  awake. 

ORIGINAL. 

La  Notte,  che  tu  vedi  in  si  dolci  atti, 
Dormire,  fu  da  un  Angelo  scolpita 
In  questo  sasso ;  e  perche  dorme,  ha  vita; 
Destela,  se  no'l  credi,  e  parleratti. 

Michelangelo  shortly  after  observed  the 
writing,  and,  with  an  emotion  which  fully 
evinced  his  sensibility,  wrote  this  reply,  in 
the  person  of  night : 

Grateful  to  me  is  this  repose  ; 
More  grateful  still  to  be  of  stone. 


MICHELANGELO.  97 

While  o'er  my  country  evil  flows, 
To  see  nor  feel  is  peace  alone. 
Then  let  me  sleep  o'er  ills  forgot : 
Speak  low !  I  pray  thee  wa,ke  me  not ! 

ORIGINAL. 

Grato  mi  e  il  sonno,  e  piCi  I'esser  di  sasso 
Mentre  che  il  danno  e  la  vergogna  dura, 
Non  veder  non  sentir  m'  e  gran  ventura. 
Pero  non  mi  destar ;  deh  parla  basso  ! 

It  was  the  fate  of  the  artist  to  hve  in  the 
most  turbulent  times  of  Florence.  Yet  her 
agonizing  struggles  for  liberty  are  less  melan- 
choly than  her  death-like  slumber.  When 
Alexander  the  Moor,  as  he  was  called,  was 
placed  by  Clement  VII  at  the  head  of  the 
republic,  its  spirit  seems  to  have  been  sub- 
dued, and  he  entered  the  deserted  palace  of 
the  Medici  amidst  the  shouts  and  adulation 
of  the  multitude.  The  noble  families  that 
could  not  brook  this  degradation,  quitted  the 
city.  Among  those  who  remained  was  Clar- 
ice the  daughter  of  Pietro  de'  Medici,  who 
had  married  Philip  Strozzi,  renowned  for  his 
immense  wealth  and  the  power  that  wealth 
gave  him  over  the  various  factions  which 
divided  the  country.  The  proud  spirit  of 
Clarice  could  ill  bear  the  assumption  of  Alex- 
7 


98  MICHELANGELO. 

ander,  and  in  silence  and  solitude  she  mourn- 
ed over  the  unhappy  destiny  of  her  native 
land.  Even  this  solace,  however,  became 
dangerous.  Her  husband  was  too  conspic- 
uous and  perhaps  too  ambitious,  to  retire  from 
the  contest.  It  was  thought  necessary  for 
his  security  that  he  should  join  with  others 
in  paying  honor  to  the  new  Duke,  and 
invitations  were  issued  for  a  festival  at  the 
Strozzi  palace.  To  this  Michelangelo  was 
invited  ;  but  he  declined,  saying,  ironically, 
"  Messer  Fihppo,  sarebbe  troppo,"  it  would 
be  too  much. 

When  the  invitation,  however,  was  again 
repeated,  to  meet  the  noble  family  with  a 
small  circle  of  friends  and  artists,  he  did  not, 
as  before,  refuse.  There  he  became  acquaint- 
ed with  the  beautiful  daughter  of  his  host. 
She  was  then  in  the  first  bloom  of  youth, 
and  Michelangelo  experienced  that  sympathy 
which  comes  from  the  depths  of  the  heart. 
She  was  neither  poetess,  musician,  nor  paint- 
er, but  endowed  with  the  genius  of  all,  and 
spurned  the  mediocrity  which  generally  be- 
longs to  the  works  of  a  mere  amateur  of  the 
arts.  Amidst  the  corruption  that  prevailed 
around  her,  she  trod  the  path  of  life  with 
dignity  and  firmness.     Till  this  period  Buon- 


MICHELANGELO.  99 

arotti  had  discovered  the  utmost  impatience 
when  obhged  to  mingle  in  general  society — 
but  her  voice  possessed  a  pecuhar  charm. 
He  regarded  her  as  a  model  of  beauty,  and 
her  gentle,  beaming  smile  sent  gladness  to 
his  heart.  As  their  acquaintance  progressed, 
he  discovered  the  justness  of  her  taste,  and 
skill  in  the  arts  ;  and  when,  added  to  this,  he 
viewed,  her  as  a  lineal  descendant  of  the 
Medici  family,  his  admiration  seems  to  have 
been  without  bounds. 

It  has  been  suggested  that  a  more  tender 
sentiment  at  that  time  arose  in  the  heart  of 
Michelangelo.  The  great  disproportion  in 
their  years  might  alone  have  been  sufficient 
to  prevent  it  ;  but  a  stronger  reason  existed  ; 
she  had  already  given  her  heart  to  another. 

That  the  young  beauty  delighted  to  honor 
the  artist,  there  are  many  records,  but  none 
more  characteristic  than  her  visit  to  his 
studio,  recorded  by  Rosini.  She  was  accom- 
panied by  her  mother  and  the  celebrated 
Cellini.  When  they  arrived  at  Michelan- 
gelo's house,  they  found  Urbino  at  the  door, 
who  conducted  the  visitors  to  his  master. 

He  received  them  in  a  dress  whicii  he 
never  wore  out  of  his  studio.  It  was  singu- 
larly plain,  and  made  for  work.     On  liis  head 


100  MICHELANGELO. 

was  placed  a  coarse  paper  cap,  such  as  stone 
cutters  often  wear  at  the  present  day,  at  the 
apex  of  which  was  fixed  a  contrivance  of 
his  own,  a  small  socket,  where  at  night  he 
was  accustomed  to  ptit  a  candle,  the  light  of 
which,  coming  from  a  high  point,  threw  its 
rays  on  the  marble  he  was  sculpturing  in 
such  a  manner  that  he  could  discover  the 
slightest  imperfections,  swells  and  cavities, 
more  distinctly  than  by  the  light  of  day. 
The  artist  received  his  unexpected  guests 
with  perfect  simplicity  and  without  apology 
for  his  working-dress. 

Michelangelo  took  great  pleasure  in  intel- 
lectual conversation,  and  frequently  had  oppor- 
tunities of  enjoying  it  in  his  unceremonious 
visits,  at  the  mansion  of  Philip  Strozzi.  On 
one  occasion,  a  discussion  arose  on  the  con- 
stancy of  love.  Some  present  denied  the 
existence  of  constancy,  and  appealed  to  the 
artist  for  his  opinion  :  he  evaded  the  demand 
for  the  time,  and  the  next  day  presented  the 
following  lines  :  — 

If  high  eslcem  and  pure  exalted  k)ve, 
With  equal  fervor,  two  fond  mortals  t;hare, 
Receiving  joy  and  sorrow  from  above, 
As  if  in  both  one  spirit  govern'd  there, — 
As  if  one  soul  were  in  two  beings  joined, — 


MICHELANGELO.  101 

To  heaven  soaring  with  an  equal  flight, 
Warm'd  by  the  same  pure  faith  each  kindred  mind, 
And  seeking  from  within  their  true  delight, 
Forgetting  self,  and  eager  to  impart 
Joy  to  each  other,  careless  of  their  own, 
For  the  rich  plunder  of  a  taken  heart 
Demanding  love  as  love's  reward  alone, — 
No  earthly  power  can  loose  these  holy  ties; 
They  are  but  pilgrims  here, — their  home  the  skies. 

While  thjs  §"ocial  intercoiu'se  was  producing 
a  benign  effect  upon  his  character,  he  received 
an  iuA^itation  from  Pope  Juhus  II  (which  in 
truth  amounted  to  an  order)  to  paint  the 
vault  of  the  Sistine  chapel  at  Rome.  Hith- 
erto he  had  devoted  himself  almost  wholly  to 
Sculpture  and  Architectiue,  was  unacquaint- 
ed with  fresco  painting,  and  most  unwilling 
to  undertake  the  work  proposed  to  him.  To 
Rome,  however,  he  went,  and  resolutely  shut 
himself  up  in  the  chapel.  After  many  trials 
and  failures,  beholding  his  works  mildew 
almost  under  his  hands,  he  at  length  succeed- 
ed in  giving  to  the  world  this  wonderful 
monument  of  human  art.* 

*  For  painting  in  fresco,  cartoons  are  first  prepared  by 
pasting  several  thicknesses  of  paper  together,  on  which  the 
designs  are  sketched  and  shaded  either  in  colors,  or  in 
black  and  white.  A  small  portion  of  the  wall  is  then  fresh- 
ly plastered,  and  while  it  is  damp,  a  sfrip  is  cut  from  the 
cartoons  and  placed  upon  it.     The  outline  is  then  pricked 


102  MICHELANGELO. 

While  the  work  was  in  operation,  Jnhiis 
became  extremely  impatient,  and  demanded 
when  it  would  be  finished  ?  ''  When  I  have 
satisfied  myself,"  replied  Michelangelo. 

His  holiness,  thus  repulsed,  waited  some 
time  longer ;  but  at  length  became  furious  at 
the  delay,  and  on  the  morning  of  All-saints 
day  the  chapel  was  thrown  open,  and  high 
mass  performed. 

The  first  sight  of  the  work  which  has 
found  so  many  admirers  since,  awakened  in 
that  susceptible  people  an  enthusiasm  which 
cannot  be  adequately  described.  Vasari,  the 
intimate  friend  and  correspondent  of  Michel- 
angelo, speaks  of  it  as  of  a  work  divine. 
After  giving  an  account  of  its  plan,  and 
enumerating  the  various  designs  by  which 
the  great  artist  has  represented  the  genealogy 
of  Christ  from  the  beginning,  he  breaks 
out, — 

"  Happy  age,  and  happy  artists,  who  have 
had  the  opportunity  of  purifying  your  eyes 
at  so  clear  a  fountain  ;  who  have  found  your 
difficulties  all  removed  and  your  path  pointed 

or  ft-aced  through  the  cartoons,  on  to  the  wall ;  and  the 
figures,  having  been  thus  outlined,  and  indicated  with  suffi- 
cient completeness,  the  painter  begins  his  work.  As  the 
plaster  must  not  dry,  he  undertakes  no  more  than  he  can 
accomplish  in  one  day. 


MICHELANGELO. 


103 


out  by  so  wonderful  an  artist,  who  has  ena- 
bled you  to  distinguish  truth  from  falsehood, 
and  who  has  cleared  the  mind  from  its  dark 
clouds.  Thank  Heaven  for  its  goodness,  and 
strive  to  imitate  Michelangelo  in  all  things." 

"  People  collected  from  all  parts,  to  view 
this  wonderful  exhibition  of  human  art,  and 
when  they  beheld  it,  were  struck  dumb  with 
admiration  and  astonishment."  Such  is  the 
language  of  the  time. 

Before  the  chapel  was  opened,  Michelangelo 
wished  to  ornament  it,  in  the  style  of  the 
old  painters,  with  gold  and  drapery,  that  it 
might  be  more  imposing.  The  impatience 
of  the  Pope  defeated  this  intention,  and  it 
was  opened  in  its  simple  state.  The  holy 
father's  ideas  did  not  appear,  however,  to  be 
graduated  on  a  scale  of  simplicity,  and  he 
expressed  dissatisfaction  at  what  he  chose  to 
consider  the  baldness  of  the  work. 

"  Reverend  father,"  said  Michelangelo,  fa- 
miliarly, "  in  former  times  the  saints  were 
satisfied  with  holiness,  and  did  not  covet 
wealth  J  ^ 

Few  artists  have  done  so  much  as  Michel- 
angelo, and  few  have  received  so  much  hom- 
age while  living.  But  neither  fame,  nor 
genius,  can  secure  happiness.     The  summits 


104  MICHELANGELO. 

of  the  loftiest  mountains  are  buried  in  mists, 
while  the  sun-beam  dresses  in  luxuriant 
verdure  the  humblest  valley.  Like  Mont 
Blanc,  he  stood  pre-eminent  and  was  often 
enveloped  in  storms  and  whirlwinds.  With 
the  essential  properties  of  greatness,  he 
wanted  the  gentler  propensities  of  humanity. 
The  mind,  to  be  serene  and  tranquil,  must 
be  free  from  turbulent  passions.  That  he 
often  suffered  from  his  own  infirmities  of 
temper,  is  undoubtedly  true.  That  his  rivals 
also  suffered  from  it,  cannot  be  doubted. 
His  jealousy  of  Lionardo  da  Vinci  drove  that 
noble  and  high-spirited  artist  from  Florence. 
Among  the  many  influences  which  oper- 
ated upon  the  character  of  Michelangelo  was 
the  power  which  the  great  Lorenzo  had  ob- 
tained over  his  youthful  mind,  early  initiat- 
ing him  into  the  doctrines  of  Platonism, 
which  became  incorporated  with  his  charac- 
ter. Then  the  death  of  his  benefactor  had 
its  influence  upon  him,  and  still  more  the 
unhappy  political  state  of  Florence.  It  is 
evident  that  he  was  greatly  in  advance  of 
the  age  in  which  he  lived,  and  was  born  to 
lead,  not  to  follow.  This  is  the  distinctive 
trait  of  real  genius  ;  it  cannot  be  confined  to 
the  narrow  limits  of  others'  action  ;  whether 


MICHELANGELO.  105 

in  high  or  low  hfe  it  finds  a  path  yet  untrod- 
den. Even  his  patron  Lorenzo  was  drawn 
into  the  popular  literature,  upon  which  cus- 
tom and  fashion  had  set  its  seal,  and,  with 
a  mind  essentially  devotional,  wrote  verses, 
which  he,  like  Boccaccio,  would  in  later  life 
have  gladly  consigned  to  the  flames.  Mi- 
chelangelo, on  the  contrary,  when  he  entered 
the  field  of  letters,  walked  almost  alone  in 
unsullied  purity,  never  forgetting  the  inter- 
ests of  his  country  and  the  influence  which 
its  literature  must  have  upon  youth.  His  love 
sonnets  breathe  indeed  the  mysticism  of  the 
philosophy  he  had  espoused  ;  but  they  at  the 
same  time  express  the  grandeur  and  purity  of 
his  soul.  We  may  easily  believe  that  they 
were  not  so  taking  with  the  fair  ladies  of 
Florence  as  Petrarch's. 

A  writer  has  observed,  "  If  ever  there  was 
a  man  truly  original,  whose  greatness  was 
his  own,  whose  fame  was  maintained  by  the 
self-moving  springs  of  his  own  nature,  it  was 
Michelangelo.  He  imitated  none.  He  form- 
ed himself  upon  no  models.  His  sculpture 
is  as  diflerent  from  that  of  the  Greeks,  as  the 
mountain-ringing  cantations  of  Polyphemus 
from  an  Italian  opera."  It  is  customary  to 
speak  of  him  merely  as  a  wonderful  cU'tist ; 


106  MICHELANGELO. 

but  there  was  a  deep  spirituality  in  the  man, 
which  reveals  itself,  the  more  he  is  studied. 
Something  of  this  may  be  attributed  to  the 
platonic  meetings  of  Lorenzo,  which  he  at- 
tended, and  of  which  he  eagerly  imbibed  the 
doctrines.  The  Duke  annually  celebrated 
the  seventh  of  November,  (supposed  to  be  the 
day  of  Plato's  birth  and  death,)  with  extra- 
ordinary pomp,  at  his  villa  of  Careggi.  On 
this  day  were  assembled  the  greatest  men  of 
the  age.  Politiano  was  his  friend  and  house- 
hold guest. 

In  this  abode,  where  nature  and  art  had 
lavished  its  treasures,  the  modern  school  of 
Plato  assembled.  The  large  and  magnificent 
hall  devoted  to  the  discussions  was  in  the 
house  erected  by  Lorenzo's  grandfather  and 
enlarged  by  his  father.  The  adjacent  grounds 
were  beautifully  variegated  with  wood  and 
water.  Here  were  admitted  Landino,  Pico, 
Scala  and  Ficino,  and  among  this  litera- 
ry group,  the  young  Michelangelo,  silent, 
thoughtful,  and  observing,  and  never  even 
in  speculation  losing  sight  of  the  practically 
useful.  The  favor  of  the  noble  host  had 
already  distinguished  him  as  an  artist ;  but  it 
was  the  future  that  developed  his  character, 
and  proved,  that,  separated  from  the  arts,  he 
was  still  the  great  Michelangelo.  ij 


MICHELANGELO. 


107 


To  the  divine  poem  of  Dante  he  himself 
attributed  much  of  the  formation  of  his 
character.  He  always  had  this  poem  with 
him.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  his  copy  of  it 
has  not  been  preserved  ;  for  he  had  illus- 
trated it  with  designs  upon  the  margin,  which 
were  said  to  have  been  exquisite  productions. 
The  book  was  lost  at  sea,  being  part  of  a 
valuable  collection  on  board  of  a  vessel, 
which  was  wrecked  on  its  way  to  Rome. 

At  the  time  Michelangelo  was  at  work  on 
the  Moses,  the  marble  arrived  which  was 
intended  for  the  sepulchre  of  Giulio.  As  it 
was  necessary  that  the  people  who  brought 
it  should  be  paid,  he  went  to  the  palace  for 
the  sum  required ;  but  being  told  that  he 
could  not  be  admitted  to  the  Pope,  returned 
and  paid  the  demand  himself  Again  and 
again  he  went.  He  was  told  that  his  holi- 
ness was  occupied,  and  could  see  no  one. 

"  Do  you  know  who  I  am  ?  "  said  Michel- 
angelo. 

"  Yes,  very  well,"  replied  the  usher  ;  "  but 
I  must  obey  my  orders." 

The  artist  returned  home,  cast  one  linger- 
ing look  upon  his  beloved  work,  his  favorite 
Moses,  and  then,  shaking  the  dust  of  the 
ancient  city  from  his  feet,  left  it  indignantly 
for  Florence. 


108  MICHELANGELO. 

On  arriving  there,  he  shut  himself  up. 
Very  soon  letters  came  from  the  Pope,  urging 
him  to  return,  of  which  he  took  no  notice, 
and  even  refused  to  read  them.  Finally,  a 
command  arrived  for  him  to  return  to  Rome 
on  penalty  of  excommunication. 

Enraged  at  what  he  considered  a  tyranni- 
cal exercise  of  power,  he  determined  to  quit 
his  native  country,  and  betake  himself  to 
Constantinople.  At  length,  however,  he  was 
appeased  by  the  Pope's  proposing  to  meet 
him  half  way,  and  escort  him  into  his  own 
dominions. 

Some  of  the  courtiers  advised  his  holiness 
to  punish  such  insolence  with  death. 

"  I  will,"  he  replied,  "  if  you  will  first 
find  me  another  Michelangelo." 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  unreason- 
able than  the  excessive  anger  of  the  artist ; 
but    the    circumstance    serves  to   show   that 
genius   invests   its   possessor   with   a   power 
^-    superior  to  pontifical  robes. 

On  his  return,  he  completed  the  statue  of 
Moses,  on  which  he  exercised  his  highest 
imagination.  To  enter  fully  into  the  merits 
of  this  statue,  undoubtedly  requires  study  and 
a  mind  prepared.  Many  have  been  repelled 
by  its  grandeur,  and  tempted  to  say  with  the 


MICHELANGELO.  109 

brother  sculptor, — •'  The  works  of  Michel- 
angelo are  terrific  ;  they  frighten  me."  His 
own  enthusiasm  was  so  much  excited  when 
it  was  completed,  that  he  threw  his  instru- 
ment at  it,  and  exclaimed  "  Now  speak  !  " 
The  dent  thus  made  upon  the  knee  can  be 
discovered.  The  projections  from  the  head 
are  often  supposed  to  mean  rays  or  flames 
of  intelligence ;  but  Michelangelo's  disciple, 
Condivi,  who  published  his  life  of  the  mas- 
ter, at  Rome,  while  he  was  living,  speaks,  in 
his  description  of  the  statue,  of  le  due  coma 
in  capo.  A  traveler  says,  "  After  seeing 
them,  I  could  not  doubt  they  were  meant  for 
veritable  horns,  and  that  they  emblematize 
power.  Moses  says  of  Joseph,  '  His  glory  is 
like  the  firstling  of  his  bullock,  and  his  horns 
are  like  the  horns  of  unicorns  ;  with  them 
he  shall  push  the  people  together,  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth.'  In  the  Psalms  it  is  said,  '  All 
the  horns  of  the  wicked  also  will  I  cut  oflf ; 
but  the  horns  of  the  righteous  shall  be  exalt- 
ed.' Other  allusions  are  made  to  horns  in 
scripture."  It  is  very  certain  that  Michel- 
angelo really  intended  horns.  And  yet  Gio. 
Battista  Zappi,  as  quoted  in  Gori's  notes  to 
Condivi,  speaks  of  "  «7  doppio  raggio  in 
fronte^''^  in  a  sonnet  which  has  been  justly 


110  MICHELANGELO. 

praised,  and  which  those  who  read  the  Ital- 
ian, may  find  in  a  note  below.* 

The  friendship  that  Michelangelo  formed 
with  Vasari,  his  historian,  was  one  of  the 
great  pleasm-es  of  his  life.  In  1554,  Vasari 
quitted  Rome  and  returned  to  Florence. 
They  continued  their  intercourse  by  writ- 
ing ;  and  in  this  year  Vasari  informed  him 
that  his  nephew,  Lionardo,  had  a  son  whom 
he  had  called  after  his  uncle.  To  this  let- 
ter Michelangelo  thus  replies  :  — 

"  I  have  received  the  utmost  pleasure  from 
your  letter.  It  proves  that  you  still  remem- 
ber the  poor  old  man.  You  mention  with 
triumph  that  another  Buonaroti  has  appeai*- 
ed.  For  this  feeling  I  thank  you ;  but,  in 
truth,  these  honors  do  not  please  me.     I  re- 

*  Chi  e  co.stiii,  che  in  si  gran  pietra  scolto, 

Siedc  Gigante,  e  le  pii)  illustri  e  come 

Opre  deir  Arte  avanza,  e  ha  vive,  e  pronte 

Le  labbrasi,  che  le  parole  ascolto? 
Cluesti  c  Mose;  ben  mel  dimoslra  il  folto 

Onor  del  mentu,  e  il  doppio  raggio  in  fronte  : 

Q,uesti  e  Mos6,  quando  scendea  dal  Monte, 

E  gran  parte  del  Nume  avea  nel  volto. 
Tal  era  allor,  che  le  sonanti  e  vaste 

Acque  sospese  a  s6  d'  intorno,  e  tale 

duando  il  Mar  chiuse,  e  ne  f6  tomba  altrui. 
E  voi  sue  Turbe  un  rio  Vitello  alzaste? 

Alzato  avesle  inunago  a  questa  eguale, 

Ch'  era  men  fallo  1'  adorar  cestui ! 


MICHELANGELO. 


HI 


gret  that  there  should  be  festivals  and  rejoic- 
ings when  a  child  is  born ;  let  them  rather 
be  reserved  for  that  period  when  he  shall 
have  arrived  at  a  happy  death." 

Hitherto,  in  the  noble  and  brilliant  career 
of  Michelangelo,  we  read  of  neither  decay 
nor  infirmity.  To  grandem*  and  originality 
he  united  the  patient  industry  of  a  daily  la- 
borer. His  habits  were  frugal,  and  his  diet 
abstemious ;  his  meals  often  consisting  of 
bread  and  the  light  wines  of  Tuscany  ;  and, 
though  the  companion  of  princes,  and  con- 
stantly invited  to  the  tables  of  the  luxu- 
rious, he  preserved  his  own  undeviating  sim- 
plicity. 

To  his  faithful  Urbino,  his  friend  and  ser- 
vant, he  looked  forward  for  the  solace  of  his 
advancing  years.  "  You  are  younger  than  I, 
my  dear  Urbino,"  he  would  often  say,  "  by 
many  years  ;  in  your  arms  I  trust  I  may 
yield  my  last  breath." 

It  was  the  habit  of  Michelangelo  to  work 
through  a  great  part  of  the  night,  with  ''  can- 
dela  in  capo."  At  a  certain  hour,  Urbino 
was  accustomed  to  come  to  his  studio,  and, 
reminding  him  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour, 
persuade  him  to  retire. 

The  strong  attachment   that  subsisted  be- 


112  MICHELANGELO. 

tween  him  and  his  faithful  domestic,  is  honor- 
able to  both.  One  day,  the  master  said  to 
him,  "  What  will  become  of  thee,  my  poor 
Urbino,  when  I  die  ?  " 

"  I  will  try  to  serve  another,"  replied  he, 
"  as  faithfully  as  I  have  served  thee." 

"  Still  servitude  !  "  exclaimed  the  artist, — 
"but  that  shall  not  be;  I  will  provide  for  thee 
at  my  death."  And,  to  take  from  him  the 
painful  feeling  of  dependence,  he  immediately 
gave  him  two  thousand  crowns  ;  but  he  felt 
fully  persuaded  that  Urbino,  who  was  much 
younger  than  himself,  would  smooth  the 
path  of  his  old  age,  and  receive  his  last 
breath. 

He  was  so  accustomed  to  his  attendance, 
that  one  night,  when  he  did  not  arrive,  Mi- 
chelangelo continued  working  till  the  rays 
of  morning  entered  his  room.  He  arose  from 
his  labor  with  surprise,  and  sought  the  apart- 
ment of  Urbino  with  a  sad  presentiment  of 
evil.  It  was  too  well  realized ;  poor  Urbino 
was  in  a  high  fever,  and  unable  to  rise. 
Alas !  how  was  his  expectation  reversed  !  In 
a  few  hours  the  faithful  servant  expired  in  his 
master's  arms,  who  was  left  to  moiu:n  his 
loss. 

Vasari  heard  of  this  event,  and  immediately 


MICHELANGELO.  113 

wrote  a  consolatory    letter  to  Buonaroti,  to 
which  he  received  the  following  reply :  — 

"  My  dear  Friend,  —  It  is  with  difficulty 
I  answer  your  letter.  Yes,  Urbino  is  dead ! 
His  life  was  to  me  a  blessed  gift  through  the 
grace  of  God,  and  his  loss  is  the  greatest 
calamity. 

While  he  lived  he  devoted  himself  to  my 
comfort.  For  twenty-six  years  he  has  been 
my  watchful  friend,  and  dying  he  has  taught 
me  to  die  without  reluctance.  I  had  expect- 
ed that  he  would  have  received  my  parting 
breath.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  me  to  recollect 
that  I  had  seciued  to  him  independence 
while  living,  and  had  he  survived  me,  by  my 
will  he  would  have  been  affluent. 

He  is  taken  from  me,  and  there  remains  to 
me  only  the  hope  of  seeing  him  in  Paradise. 
That  he  is  there  I  cannot  doubt.  God  has 
given  indications  of  it  in  his  resigned  and 
happy  death.  I  have  no  desire  left  to  remain 
here ;  for  the  best  part  of  me  has  gone  with 
him." 

The  loss   of  Urbino  perhaps  first   opened 
the  fountains  of  tenderness  in  the  heart  of 
Michelangelo.     From  this  time  he  seems  to 
8 


114  MICHELANGELO. 

have  resembled  less  the  marble  he  so  beauti- 
fully chiseled.  He  was  earnestly  solicited 
to  return  to  Florence ;  but  he  considered  the 
air  of  that  place  unfavorable  to  his  health. 
He  passed  much  of  his  time  in  the  exercises 
of  his  religion,  and  in  retirement  at  Spoleto  ; 
he  said  solitude  was  necessary  to  the  health 
of  his  soul. 

It  would  seem  wonderful  that  a  being  so 
endowed  by  nature  as  Buonaroti,  should 
never  have  formed  any  domestic  ties  of  a 
more  tender  natm'e  than  Avhat  he  felt  for 
Urbino ;  but  to  all  hints  of  this  kind,  he 
replied  that  "  painting  was  his  spouse,  and 
his  works  his  children." 

There  may  have  been  a  deep  and  secret 
source  of  aflection  unknown  to  any  one  but 
himself.  The  sonnets  and  letters  that  passed 
between  him  and  the  illustrious  Marchesana 
di  Pescari  prove  that  his  heart  was  not  whol- 
ly closed  to  female  influence.  She  was  the 
celebrated  poetess  Vittoria  Colonna,  born  in 
1490,  and  daughter  of  Fabrizio  Colonna.  At 
the  age  of  fourteen  she  married  the  Marquis 
di  Pescari,  to  whom  she  was  betrothed 
when  four  years  old.  The  marriage  proved 
one  of  tender  affection,  and  when  he  was 
captured  at  the  battle  of  Ravenna,  in  1512, 


MICHELANGELO.  115 

she  suffered  deeply  on  his  account.  Soon 
after  his  release,  he  was  again  in  the  ranks 
of  war,  at  the  great  battle  of  Pavia,  and  died 
of  the  wounds  he  there  received.  Vittoria 
secluded  herself  in  a  convent  at  Orvieta, 
from  which  place  her  sonnets  and  poems 
found  their  way  to  the  world.  They  are  in 
Petrarch's  style,  and  filled  with  pathetic 
lamentations  for  the  death  of  her  husband. 
The  Canzone  beginning  ''  Spirto  gentil,  che 
sei  nel  terzo  giro  del  ciel  "  is  full  of  the  con- 
ceits of  the  age.     In  this  she  says,  — 

"  That  when  her  soul  is  released  from  its 
earthly  ties,  and  follows  the  sacred  footsteps 
of  her  husband,  Peter,  hearing  his  praises  of 
her  love  and  constancy,  will  not  deny  her 
entrance  at  the  same  gate." 

At  this  time  she  was  still  young,  and  her 
hand  sought  by  the  Princes  of  Italy  ;  but 
she  would  not  listen  to  any  proposal  of  new 
ties.  Her  correspondence  with  Michelangelo 
was  constant,  and  he  often  addressed  to  her 
sonnets,  which,  though  expressive  of  his 
high  admiration  and  deep  feeling,  are  too 
humble,  to  cause  offence  even  in  the  heart  of 
a  determined  recluse.  The  following  is  a 
comparison  of  the  art  of  Sculpture  with  the 
art  of  Love,  which  is    so  difficult  to    turn 


116  MICHELANGELO. 

into  satisfactory  English,  that  it  may  here  be 
inserted  in  the  original  for  the  benefit  of 
those  who  may  be  able  to  understand  it. 

Non  ha  1'  ottimo  artis^ta  alcun  concetto 
Ch'  ua  marrao  solo  in  se  non  circoscriva 
Col  suo  soverchio,  e  solo  a  quelle  arriva 
La  man  che  obedisce  all'  intelletto. 

II  mal  ch'  io  fuggo,  e  '1  ben  ch'  io  mi  prometto, 
In  te,  donna  leggiadra  altera  e  diva, 
Tal  si  nasconde ;  e  perch'  io  piu  non  viva, 
Contraria  ho  I'arte  al  desiato  effetto. 

Amor  dunqne  non  ha,  ne  tua  beltate, 
O  fortuna  o  durezza  o  gran  disdegno, 
Del  mio  mal  colpa,  o  mio  destino  o  sorte ; 

Se  dentro  del  tuo  cormorte  e  pietate 
Porti  in  un  tempo,  e  che  '1  mio  basso  ingegno 
Non  sappia  ardendo  trarne  altro  che  morte. 

A  ray  of  sunshine  was  yet  to  brighten  his 
existence.  On  his  return  one  day  to  his 
house,  he  found  the  Marchioness  di  Pescari 
had  called.  From  this  time  she  resided  in 
Rome.  Historians  say,  Tiraboschi  among 
them,  that  "  her  motives  are  unknown." 

The  sonnets  on  the  part  of  Michelangelo 
did  not  cease  after  her  amval.  In  the  follow- 
ing one  he  expresses  his  conviction  that  hu- 
man beauty  raises  the  soul  to  the  Creator. 

The  speaking  face,  the  kindling  eyes, 
To  heaven  lift  the  soul ; 


MICHELANGELO.  117 

No  human  power  thus  bids  it  rise 

Beyond  the  earth's  control. 
The  mighty  artist  thus  designed, 

His  works  should  with  himself  compare, 
And  beauty  raise  the  human  mind 

Above  pursuits  of  worldly  care. 

No  longer  will  I  seek  to  shun 

That  speaking  glance  of  thine; 
It  is  to  me  the  glorious  Sun 

That  warms  with  love  divine ; 
And  as  I  feel  the  kindling  ray, 

Its  fervor  shall  my  soul  deliglit ; 
The  noble  flame  shall  guide  my  way 

To  him  who  dwells  in  endless  light. 

For  the  Marchioness  he  made  some  of  his 
most  beautiful  designs,  particularly  the  In- 
fant in  the  lap  of  the  Virgin,  and  a  Christ 
upon  the  cross. 

In  this  friendship  there  was  much  to 
soften  and  elevate  the  mind  of  the  great 
artist ;  but  it  was  his  lot  to  outlive  those  he 
most  fondly  loved.  The  death  of  Vittoria 
took  place  a  number  of  years  before  his,  and 
the  ancient  solitary  man  was  doomed  to 
travel  on  alone. 

At  the  age  of  seventy,  he  was  lurged  to 
undertake  the  architecture  of  St.  Peter's 
Church.  He  accepted  the  office  with  great 
reluctance,  and  on  the  express  condition  that 
he  should  receive  no  salary. 

His   love  of   writing  poetry  continued  to 


118  MICHELANGELO. 

the  end  of  his  Hfe.  He  felt,  however,  that 
his  taste  might  be  ridiculed,  as  appears  by 
the  following  passage  in  a  letter  to  Vasari. 

"  It  is  the  will  of  God,  my  dear  Vasari,  that 
I  still  should  linger  here.  I  know  they  ac- 
cuse me  of  second  childhood  in  -writing 
sonnets,  and  since  they  say  so,  I  will  justify 
their  remarks  —  I  therefore  enclose  one  more 
to  you. 

My  feeble  bark  has  reached  the  shore, 

And  life's  tempestuous  sea  is  passed ; 

Trembling  I  trace  my  perils  o'er, 

And  yield  my  dread  account  at  last. 

The  rival  arts  that  charmed  my  youth, 

Those  fancies  of  my  wayward  mind. 

Those  winning  dreams  of  love  and  truth. 

Are  vain  delusions,  all,  I  find — 

A  double  death  appals  me  now  ; 

The  one  draws  near  with  rapid  strides, 

The  other  with  his  awful  brow 

Time  from  eternity  divides. 

Sculpture  and  painting,  rival  arts  ! 

Ye  can  no  longer  soothe  ray  breast ; 

Tis  love  divine  alone,  imparts 

The  promise  of  a  future  rest. 

On  that  my  trembling  soul  relies — 

My  trust  the  cross,  my  hope  the  skies."  * 

As  his  last  days  approached,  he  took  great 
delight  in  reading  the  scriptures,  and  in  the 
works  of  Father  Girolamo  Savonarola.     His 
*  For  the  original  Italian  sonnet,  see  Vasari. 


MICHELANGELO.  119 

love  of  solitude  sometimes  drew  upon  him 
severe  remarks  ;  but  he  well  understood  the 
great  secret  of  searching  within  himself  for 
the  true  elements  of  greatness. 

His  replies  were  often  caustic  and  severe. 
A  friend  of  his,  intended  for  the  church, 
arrived  at  Rome.  Michelangelo  was  un- 
pleasantly struck  with  the  foppishness  of  his 
manner,  and  splendid  costume,  and  affected 
not  to  know  him.  The  man  was  obliged 
to  tell  his  name.  —  Michelangelo  discover- 
ed great  astonishment.  "  Oh  !  "  exclaimed 
he,  "  you  are  very  fine  !  if  the  inside  is  as 
well  endowed  as  the  outside,  it  will  be  hap- 
py for  your  soul." 

One  day,  a  friend  observed  "that  he  was 
much  to  be  pitied  for  having  spent  his  life 
in  the  pursuit  of  arts,  which  he  could  not 
carry  with  him." 

He  replied,  "  Why  so  ?  a  taste  and  capa- 
city for  them  was  sent  by  the  same  hand 
that  sends  death." 

"Contemplation,"  he  said,  was  "the  only 
food  which  properly  nurtured  the  mind  —  it 
was  the  nurse  of  high  and  grand  concep- 
tions." 

Michelangelo  died  at  Rome  of  a  slow 
fever,  the  17th  of  February  1564,  at  the  age 


120  MICHELANGELO. 

of  ninety.*  He  made  his  will  in  a  few  words, 
commiting  his  soul  to  God,  his  body  to  the 
earth,  and  his  possessions  to  his  nearest  rela- 
tives ;  and  added,  that  he  died  in  the  faith  of 
Jesus  Christ,  and  the  firm  hope  of  a  better 
life. 

His  mind  was  never  broken  down  to  the 
habits  and  conversation  of  every  day  life.  — 
His  religion  was  the  religion  of  his  soul,  not 
of  his  church  ;  his  alms-giving,  compassion 
for  his  fellow-men  ;  and  his  wealth  the  just 
reward  of  labor.  The  triple  wreaths  of 
sculpture,  painting,  and  architecture  adorn 
his  tomb  ;  his  memory  and  works  are  left 
to  posterity. 

*  He  was  coeianeous  with  the  poet  Ariosto. 


RAFFAELLO  SANZIO  D'URBINO. 


The  solemn  and  silent  season  of  Lent  had 
passed  away  ;  and,  on  the  second  evening  of 
the  joyful  Easter,  a  house  was  seen  brightly 
illuminated  in  one  of  the  streets  of  Urbino. 
It  was  evident  that  a  festival  was  held  there 
on  some  happy  occasion.  The  sound  of 
music  was  heard,  and  guest  after  guest  enter- 
ed the  mansion.  No  one,  however,  was  more 
cordially  welcomed  than  Pictro  Perugino,  the 
fellow-student  of  Lionardo  da  Vinci,  at  the 
school  of  the  good  old  Andrea  Verocchio. 

For  a  moment,  general  gaiety  was  sus- 
pended, in  honor  of  the  guest.  He  was  con- 
sidered at  that  time  one  of  the  greatest 
painters  of  the  age ;  and  the  host,  Giovanni 
di  Sanzio,  though  himself  only  ranking  in 
the  second  or  third  order  of  limners,  knew 
well  how  to  prize  the  rare  talents  of  his 
visitor. 


122  RAPHAEL. 

The  wife  of  Giovanni  came  forward,  lead- 
her  son  Raphael.  Perugino  had  the  eye  of 
an  artist :  he  gazed  upon  the  mother  and  son 
with  enthusiastic  feeUng  ;  the  striking  re- 
semblance they  bore  to  each  other,  so  exqui- 
sitely modulated  by  years  and  sex,  was 
indeed  a  study  for  this  minute  copyist  of 
nature. 

"  Benvenuto,  Messer  Perugino,"  said  the 
hostess,  with  her  soft  musical  voice  and 
graceful  Italian  accent,  and  she  placed  the 
hand  of  her  boy  in  that  of  the  artist.  Gent- 
ly he  laid  the  other  on  the  head  of  the 
youthful  Raphael,  and  in  a  solemn  ajid  ten- 
der manner   pronounced  a   benediction. 

"  Your  blessing  is  well  timed  my  honored 
friend,"  said  Giovanni ;  "  our  festival  is  given 
to  celebrate  the  birth-day  of  our  son." 

"  Is  this  his  birth-day  ?  "  inquired  Peru- 
gino. 

"Not  so,"  replied  the  father,  "he  was 
born  on  the  7th  of  April,  the  evening  of 
Good  Friday,  and  it  well  befits  us  to  be  gay 
on  the  joyful  Easter  that  succeeds  it."  * 

The  hostess  and  her  son  tiuned  to  receive 
other  guests,  who  were  coming  fast,  and  the 
two  artists  continued  their  conversation. 

*  Raphael  and  Luther  were  bom  in  the  same  year. 


RAPHAEL.  123 

"  I  have  never,"  said  Perugino,  "beheld  so 
striking  a  resemblance  as  between  your  wife 
and  son." 

"  I  rejoice  that  it  is  so,"  said  Giovanni ;  "it 
was  my  earnest  desire  that  he  should  be  first 
nourished  by  his  mother's  milk."* 

"  There  is  the  same  expression  of  softness 
and  sensibility,"  exclaimed  Perugino,  "beam- 
ing from  their  eyes,  —  the  fair  hair  parted  on 
the  forehead,  and  falling  in  wavy  curls.  Ah ! 
my  friend,  guard  yoiu:  son  from  a  sensibility 
that  may  degenerate  into  weakness,  —  from 
a  tenderness  of  heart  that  may  undermine 
the  foundation  of  good  principle.  If  I  read 
his  destiny  aright,  he  is  born  to  excel  in  high 
and  noble  arts.  To  those  it  were  well  to 
direct  his  attention." 

"  I  have  anticipated  your  counsel,"  said 
Giovanni.  "  If  you  can  have  patience  with 
the  first  attempts  of  a  mere  boy,  I  will  show 
you  a  Madonna  which  he  has  just  com- 
pleted." 

Perugino  followed  the  father  through  the 
colonnade  to  a  small  enclosure.  On  the  wall 
was  painted  a  mother  and  child.  It  was 
truly  the  infancy  of  Raphael's  art :  there  was 
but  little  beauty  of  coloring  ;  but  the  expres-: 

•  Che  la  propria  madre  lo  allatasse.— Vasari. 


124  RAPHAEL. 

sion  that  in  succeeding  years  distinguished 
his  works,  was  there. 

"  My  friend,"  said  Perugino,  ''  if  thou  wilt 
entrust  thy  boy  to  my  care,  I  will  take  him 
as  my  pupil." 

The  father  acceded  with  delight  to  this 
proposal.  When  the  mother  became  ac- 
quainted with  the  arrangement,  and  found 
that  her  son  was  to  quit  his  paternal  dwelling 
at  the  early  age  of  twelve,  and  reside  wholly 
with  Perugino,  she  could  not  restrain  her 
tears.  With  hers  the  young  Raphael's  min- 
gled, though  ever  and  anon  a  bright  smile 
darted  like  a  sunbeam  across  his  face. 

The  parting  was  one  of  sadness.  Hither- 
to they  had  scarcely  been  separated  for  an 
hour  ;  but  she  now  felt  that  her  son  was  en- 
tering the  world  ;  all  her  tender  and  delight- 
ful solicitudes  were  to  partake  of  anxiety 
for  the  future.  Perhaps  she  understood,  as 
mothers  frequently  do,  the  valuable  parts  of 
his  character.  She  trembled  for  the  influ- 
ence ^he  world  might  have  on  a  heart  so 
flexiipe  and  feeling,  and  grieved  for  the  dis- 
appointments he  must  endure,  and  the  in- 
juries he  must  receive,  from  minds  all  unlike 
his  own.  "  But  this,"  thought  she,  "  is  the 
school  in  which  he  must  learn.     To  acquire 


RAPHAEL.  125 

firmness  to  resist  temptation  is  the  great 
secmity  of  virtue." 

He  remained  with  Perugino  several  years. 
Raphael  was  made  for  affection,  and  fondly 
did  his  heart  cling  to  his  instructor.  For  a 
time  he  was  content  to  follow  his  manner  ', 
but  at  length  he  began  to  dwell  upon  his 
own  beau  ideal  ;  he  grew  impatient  of  im- 
itation, and  felt  that  his  style  was  deficient 
in  freshness  and  originality.  He  longed  to 
pass  the  narrow  bounds  to  which  his  inven- 
tion had  been  confined. 

With  the  approbation  of  Perugino,  and  the 
consent  of  his  parents,  he  repaired  to  Siena  ; 
here  he  was  solicited  to  adorn  the  public 
library  with  fresco,  and  painted  there  with 
great  success.  But  while  he  was  busily  en- 
gaged, his  friend  Pinturrichio  one  day  enter- 
ed. After  looking  at  his  friend's  work  very 
attentively,  "  Bravo  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  thou 
hast  done  well,  my  Raphael — but  I  have 
just  returned  from  Florence  —  oh  would  that 
thou  couldst  behold  the  works  of  Lionardo 
da  Vinci !  Such  horses!  they  paw  the  ground, 
and  shake  the  foam  from  their,  manes.  Oh, 
my  poor  Raphael !  thou  hast  never  seen  na- 
ture ;  thou  art  wasting  time  on  these  cartoons. 
—  Perugino    is    a    good    man,  and   a  good 


126  RAPHAEL. 

painter,    I  will  not    deny  that,  —  but  Lion- 
ardo's  horses  !  " 

Raphael  threw  aside  his  pencil,  and  hasti- 
ly arose. 

"  Where  now  ?  "  asked  his  friend,  '-whither 
art  thou  going  so  hastily  ?  " 

"  To  Florence,"  exclaimed  Raphael. 

"  And  what  carries  you  so  suddenly  ?  " 

"  The  horses  of  Lionardo,"  replied  the 
yound  artist,  sportively — "seriously,  how- 
ever, the  desire  of  excellence  implanted  in 
my  soul." 

When  he  arrived  at  Florence,  he  was 
charmed  with  the  appearance  of  the  city  ;  — 
but  his  whole  mind  was  absorbed  in  the 
works  of  Lionardo  da  Vinci  and  of  Michel- 
angelo, the  rival  artists  of  the  age.  As  his 
stay  was  to  be  short,  he  did  not  enter  upon 
laborious  occupation.  His  mornings  were 
passed  in  the  reveries  of  his  art ;  his  even- 
ings in  the  gay  and  fascinating  society  of 
Florence,  where  the  fame  of  Perugino's 
beloved  pupil  had  already  reached.  The 
frescos  at  Siena  were  spoken  of;  and  the 
beautiful  countenance  and  graceful  deport- 
ment of  Raphael  won  him  the  friendship  of 
distinguished  men.  Taddeo  Taddei,  the 
learned  friend  of  Cardinal    Bembo,    solicited 


RAPHAEL.  127 

him  to  reside  in  his  house  :  he  consented, 
and  in  return  for  the  courtesy,  painted  for 
him  two  pictm-es  in  what  is  called  his  first 
style,  that  of  Perugino. 

Lorenzo  Nasci  was  just  married  to  a  beauti- 
ful young  wife,  and  resided  at  his  villa  at  the 
foot  of  Monte  St.  Giorgio.     To  this  abode  of 
elegance  and  luxury,  Raphael  was  invited, 
and  he  was  requested  to  paint  a  picture  for 
the  youthful   bride.     He  chose  his   favorite 
subject,    the  Madonna   and   child,   with    St. 
John  by   her   side,  his   countenance   full   of 
innocent  gaiety,  holding  a  bird  up  to  the  in- 
fant Jesus.     Either  from  design  or  accident, 
the    countenance    of    the    Madonna    bore    a 
striking  resemblance  to  his  beautiful  hostess ; 
an   indescribable    air   of   human   fascination 
mingled  with  the  spiritual  sublimity  he  knew 
so  well  how    to    portray.     Lorenzo  received 
this  tribute  of  his  art  with  rapture  ;  it  was 
more  precious  to  him  than  all  the  gems  of 
antiquity  collected  around  him. 

His  fine  taste  appreciated  in  this  piece,  the 
exquisite  grouping,  in  which  Raphael  so 
greatly  excelled  all  his  predecessors,  that 
signal  moderation  of  his,  so  distant  from  the 
theatrical  effects  of  inferior  artists,  the  tran- 
quillity  and  mild  unconscious  beauty   with 


128  RAPHAEL. 

which  he  invested  his  females,  the  tender- 
ness which  animated  their  countenances,  and 
above  all  that  sovereign  grace,  which  has 
never  yet  been  equalled,  and  which  perhaps 
can  never  be  siupassed. 

'^This  piece,"  said  Lorenzo,  pressing  the 
hand  ,of  Raphael  with  enthusiasm,  "  this 
piece  s^all  not  only  be  an  heir-loom  of  my 
family,  but  of  Italy.  Ages  unborn  shall  look 
upon  it  with  delight,  and  say,  '  This  is  the 
work  of  Raifaello  Sanzio  d'  Urbino  ! '  "  * 

At  the  residence  of  Lorenzo  the  young 
artist  remained  during  the  warm  season.  It 
was  a  spot  in  which  his  imagination  found 
the  fullest  exercise.  He  wandered  among 
the  groves ;  he  climbed  to  the  loftiest  sum- 
mits, and  gazed  on  the  expanse  below  ;  he 
threw  himself  beside  the  water-fall,  and 
listened  to  its  murmurs,  till  sleep  insensibly 
stole  over  him.  Then,  what  visions  opened 
to  his  mind !  It  was  on  waking  from  such 
a  dream,  that  he  seized  his  pencil,  and  gave 
to  the  world  one  of  the  most  perfect  of  his 
Madonnas — the  Madonna  del  Cardellino. 

•  Alas !  what  are  the  predictions  of  human  foresight  1  In 
the  year  1548,  on  the  17th  day  of  November,  the  villa,  with 
its  precious  gems  of  art,  including  this  picture  of  Raphael's, 
was  destroyed  by  a  slide  of  the  mountain  1" — Vasari's  Life 
OF  Raphael. 


RAPHAEL.  129 

The  Villa  was  thronged  with  fashion  and 
gaiety.  The  song  and  the  dance,  fair  forms 
and  gentle  voices  —  his  spirits  were  in  unison 
with  all  around  him.  The  lyre  of  Sappho 
thrilled  his  senses  ;  the  warbling  lute  kindled 
his  imagination  —  no  mentor  was  near  to 
counsel  or  to  warn,  and  Raphael  yielded  to 
the  enchantment  that  everywhere  beset  him. 

One  evening  he  retired  to  his  couch  at  a 
late  hour.  He  had  been  the  hero  of  a  fete, 
and  love  and  beauty  had  heedlessly  scattered 
their  flowers  in  the  path  of  the  living 
Adonis.  In  vain  he  sought  a  few  hours  of 
slumber.  He  had  quaffed  the  juice  of  the 
grape,  emptying  goblet  after  goblet  till  his 
beating  pulse  and  throbbing  temples  refused 
to  be  quieted.  He  started  from  his  couch 
and  approached  the  lattice  ;  the  heavens  had 
changed  their  aspect,  the  still  serenity  of  the 
evening  had  passed  away,  and  the  clouds 
were  hurrying  over  the  pale  and  watery 
moon.  Nothing  was  heard  but  the  low  sigh- 
ing of  the  wind  ;  and  now  and  then  a  sudden 
gust  swept  through  the  lattice,  and  threatened 
to  extinguish  the  taper  which  was  burning 
dimly  on  the  table.  A  slight  noise  made  him 
turn  his  eyes,  and  he  perceived  a  note  that  the 
wind  had  displaced.  He  hastily  took  it  up. 
9 


130  RAPHAEL. 

It  was  Periigino's  hand-writing.     He  cut  the 
silken  cord  that  fastened  it,  and  read  — 

'■'■  On  me,  my  beloved  Raffaello,  devolves 
the  task  of  informing  you  of  the  events 
whicli  have  taken  place  at  Urbino.  May 
this  letter  find  you  prepared  for  all  the 
changes  of  life  ;  a  wise  man  will  never  suf- 
fer himself  to  be  taken  by  sm'prise  :  this  is 
true  philosophy,  and  the  only  pliilosoplty  that 
can  serve  us  !  *  An  epidemic  has  prevailed 
at  Urbino,  and  has  entered  your  paternal 
dwelling.  Need  I  say  more  ?  Come  to  me, 
my  son,  at  Perugia,  for  I  am  the  only  parent 
that  remains  to  you.       Pietro  Perugino." 

Where  now  was  the  delirium  excited  by 
gay  and  thoughtless  excess  ?  The  goblet 
would  have  sparkled  to  his  eye  no  longer,  had 
it  been  presented  to  his  lips.  In  the  midst  of 
pleasure,  ere  the  rose-buds  with  which  he 
had  crowned  himself  were  withered,  the 
voice  of  death  deep  and  hollow  sounded  in 
his  ear !  The  head  tliat  liad  throbbed  so 
violently   was   for   a   moment   stilled.     The 

*  Fu  Pielro  persona  di  assai  poca  religione,  e  non  se  gli 
fiotc  mai  credere  1'  itnmyrlalitii  dcira'nima. — Vita  di  Pietro 
Pkrugino,  da  Vasari. 


RAPHAEL.  131 

blood  that  had  rushed  with  such  feverish 
excitement  was  stayed  in  its  course.  It 
seemed  as  if  death  had  laid  an  icy  hand  upon 
his  heart.  By  degrees  animation  returned, 
and  he  awoke  to  a  sense  of  the  wretchedness 
of  his  situation. 

'•'  My  mother  !  my  mother  !  "  he  exclaim- 
ed ;  "  never  more  am  I  to  behold  thee. 
Never  more  to  rest  my  head  on  thy  bosom  ! 
Never  more  to  hear  thy  voice,  to  feel  thy 
face  pressed  to  mine,  thy  arms  encircling  my 
neck,  thy  hand  upon  my  aching  brow  !  " 

As  he  hastily  arose,  a  crucifix  which  his 
mother  had  suspended  to  his  neck  at  parting, 
fell  from  his  bosom.  Even  the  symbols  of 
religion  are  sacred  where  the  living  principle 
has  been  early  implanted  in  the  heart.  He 
pressed  it  to  his  lips ;  ''  Ah  !  "  thought  he, 
''  what  is  the  philosophy  of  Perugino,  com- 
])ared  to  the  faith  of  which  this  is  the  em- 
blem !  "  His  thoughts  went  back  to  infancy 
and  childhood,  and  his  grief  and  remorse 
grew  less  intense.  He  dwelt  on  the  deep 
and  enduring  love  of  his  parents  till  he  felt 
assured  death  could  not  extinguish  it,  and 
that  he  should  see  them  again  in  a  brighter 
sphere. 

When   morning    came,  it   found   Raphael 


132 


RAPHAEL. 


calm  and  composed  ;  the  lines  of  grief  and 
thought  were  deeply  marked  on  his  youthful 
face  ;  but  the  whirlwind  and  the  storm  had 
passed.  He  took  leave  of  his  friends,  and 
hastened  to  Perugino,  who  received  him  with 
the  fondness  of  a  parent. 

Here  he  remained  some  time,  and  at  length 
collected  suiRcient  resolution  to  return  to 
Urbino,  and  once  more  enter  the  mansion  of 
his  desolated  home. 

It  was  necessary  for  him  to  reside  at  his 
native  place  for  a  number  of  months.  Dur- 
ing that  time,  he  painted  several  fine  pictures. 
His  heart,  however,  yearned  for  Florence, 
and  he  returned  to  it  once  more  witli  the 
determination  of  making  it  his  home.  With 
far  different  sensations  did  he  a  second  time 
enter  the  city  of  beauty.  The  freshness  of 
his  gaiety  was  blighted  ;  lessons  of  earthly 
disappointment  were  ever  present  to  his 
mind,  and  he  returned  to  it  with  the  resolute 
purpose  of  devoting  himself  to  serious  occu- 
pation. 

How  well  he  fulfilled  tiiis  resolution  all 
Italy  can  bear  witness.  From  this  time  he 
adopted  what  has  been  called  his  second 
Tnannci'.  He  painted  for  the  Duke  of  Urbino 
the  beautiful  picture  of  the  Saviour  at  sun- 


•RAPHAEL.  133 

rise,  with  the  morning  hght  cast  over  a  face 
resplendent  with  divinity  ;  the  flowers  ght- 
tering  with  dew,  the  two  disciples  beyond, 
still  buried  in  slumber,  at  the  time  when  the 
Saviour  turns  his  eyes  upon  them  with  that 
tender  and  sorrowful  exclamation,  —  "  Could 
ye  not  watch  one  hour  ?  " 

Raphael  enriched  the  city  of  Florence 
with  his  works.  When  asked  what  had 
suggested  some  of  the  beautiful  combinations 
of  his  paintings,  he  said,  "  they  came  to  me 
in  my  sleep."  At  other  times,  he  called 
them  ^^  visions;"  and  then  again  said  they 
were  the  result  of  "  una  certa  idea  che  mi 
viene  alia  mente."  It  was  this  power  of 
drawing  from  the  deep  wells  of  his  own 
mind  that  gave  such  character,  originality  and 
freshness  to  his  works.  He  found  that  power 
within,  which  so  many  seek,  and  seek  in 
vain,  loithout. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-five,  Raphael  was 
summoned  by  the  Pope  to  paint  the  cham- 
bers of  the  Vatican.  The  famous  frescos  of 
the  Vatician  need  neither  enumeration  rtor 
description ;  the  world  is  their  judge  and 
their  eulogist. 

No  artist  ever  consecrated  his  works  more 
by  his  affections  than  Raphael.     The  same 


134  RAPHAEL.  ■ 

hallowed  influence  of  the  heart  gave  inex- 
pressible charm  to  Coreggio's,  afterwards. 
One  of  Raphael's  friends  said  to  him,  in 
looking  upon  particular  figures  in  his  groups. 
"  You  have  transmitted  to  posterity  your 
own  likeness." 

"  See  you  nothing  beyond  that?"  replied 
the  artist. 

"  I  see,"  said  the  critic,  "  the  deep  blue 
eye,  and  the  long  fair  hair  parted  on  the 
forehead." 

"  Observe,"  said  Raphael,  "  the  feminine 
softness  of  expression,  the  beautiful  harmony 
of  thought  and  feeling.  When  I  take  my 
pencil  for  high  and  noble  purposes,  the  spirit 
of  my  mother  hovers  over  me.  It  is  her 
countenance,  not  my  own,  of  which  you 
trace  the  resemblance." 

This  expression  is  always  observable  in 
his  Madonnas.  His  portraits  of  the  Forna- 
rina  are  widely  diflerent.  Raphael  in  his 
last  and  most  excellent  style,  united  what 
was  graceful  and  exquisite  in  Lionardo,  with 
the  sublime  and  noble  manner  of  Michelan- 
gelo. It  is  the  privilege  and  glory  of  genius 
to  appropriate  to  itself  whatever  is  noble  and 
true.  The  region  of  thought  is  thus  made 
a  common  ground   for  all,  and   one  master 


RAPHAEL. 


135 


mind  becomes  a  reservoir  for  the  present  and 
future  times. 

When  Raphael  was  invited  to  Rome  by 
Pope  Juhus  II,  Michelangelo  was  at  the 
height  of  his  glory ;  his  character  tended 
to  inspire  awe  rather  than  affection  ;  he  de- 
lighted in  the  majestic  and  the  temble.  In 
boldness  of  conception  and  grandeur  of  de- 
sign, he  surpassed  Lionardo,  but  never  could 
reach  the  sweetness  and  gentleness  of  his 
figures.  Even  his  children  lose  something 
of  their  infantine  beauty,  and  look  mature ; 
his  women  are  commanding  and  lofty ;  his 
men  of  gigantic  proportions.  His  painting, 
like  his  sculpture,  is  remarkable  for  anatom- 
ical exactness,  and  perfect  expression  of  the 
muscles.  For  this  union  of  magnificence 
and  sublimity,  it  was  necessary  to  prepare  the 
mind  ;  the  first  view  was  almost  terrific,  and 
it  was  by  degrees  that  his  mighty  works 
jn'oduced  their  designed  effect.  Raphael 
while  he  felt  all  the  greatness  of  the  Floren- 
tine, conceived  that  there  might  be  some- 
thing more  like  nature  —  something  tliat 
should  be  harmonious,  sweet,  and  flowing  — 
that  should  convey  the  idea  of  intellectual 
rather  than  of  external  majesty.  Without 
yielding   any   of  the  correctness  of  science, 


136  RAPHAEL. 

he  avoided  harshness,  and  imitated  antiquity 
in  uniting  grace  and  elegance  with  a  strict 
observation  of  science  and  of  the  rules  of  art. 

It  was  with  surprise  that  Michelangelo 
beheld  in  the  youthful  Raphael  a  rival  artist ; 
nor  did  he  receive  this  truth  meekly  :  he 
treated  him  with  coldness  and  distance.  In 
the  mean  time  Raphael  went  on  with  his 
works ;  he  completed  the  frescos  of  the 
Vatican,*  and  designed  the  cartoons.f  He 
also  produced  those  exquisite  paintings  in  oil 
which  seem  the  perfection  of  human  art. 

Human  affection  is  necessary  to  awaken 
the  sympathy  of  human  beings  ;  and  Raphael, 
in  learning  how  to  portray  it,  had  found  the 


*  These  are  the  celebrated  works  which  have  been  so 
much  visited,  admired,  and  imitated  for  more  than  three 
centuries.  They  are  tolerably  preserved ;  but  are  said  to 
have  been  much  injured  by  the  fires  of  the  German  soldiers, 
who  used  these  rooms  as  their  barracks,  in  the  sack  of 
Rome  by  Charles  V.'s  Generals,  soon  after  Raphael's 
death. 

t  Where  Raphael's  cartoons  are  spoken  of,  certain  paint- 
ings on  paper  are  meant,  which  he  executed  as  patterns  for 
tapestry,  to  be  used  in  the  Procession  of  corpus  Domini  at 
Rome.  It  is  believed  that  they  were  carried  into  England 
from  the  Low  Countries,  v/here  they  were  sent  to  be  exe- 
cuted in  tapestry.  The  tapestries  are  annually  exhibited  at 
Rome.  For  the  manner  in  which  cartoons  are  used  in 
fresco,  see  note  to  Michelangelo. 


RAPHAEL. 


137 


way  to  the  heart.  In  mere  grandeur  of  in- 
vention he  was  surpassed  by  Michelangelo. 
Titian  excelled  him  in  coloring,  and  Coreggio 
in  the  beautiful  gradation  of  tone ;  but  Ra- 
phael knew  how  to  paint  the  soul ;  in  this  he 
stood  alone.  This  was  the  great  secret  of  a 
power  which  seemed  to  operate  like  magic. 
In  his  paintings  there  is  something  which 
makes  music  on  the  chords  of  every  heart ; 
for  they  are  the  expression  of  a  mind  attuned 
to  nature,  and  find  answering  sympathies  in 
the  universal  soul. 

While  Michelangelo  was  exalted  with  the 
Epic  grandeur  of  his  own  Dante,  Raphael 
presented  the  most  finished  scenes  of  dra- 
matic life,  and  might  be  compared  to  the 
immortal  Shakspeare  —  scenes  of  spiritual 
beauty,  of  devotion,  and  of  pastoral  sim- 
plicity, yet  uniting  a  classic  elegance  which 
the  poet  does  not  possess.  Buonaroti  was 
the  wonder  of  Italy,  and  Raphael  became 
its  idol. 

Julius  was  so  much  enchanted  with  his 
paintings  in  the  halls  of  the  Vatican,  that  he 
ordered  the  frescos  of  former  artists  to  be 
destroyed.  Among  them  were  some  of 
Perugino's ;  but  Raphael  would  not  suff'er 
these  to  be  removed  for  his  own ;  he  viewed 


138  RAPHAEL. 

them  as  the  rehcs  of  a  beloved  and  honored 
friend,  and  they  were  consecrated  by  tender 
and  grateful  feelings. 

On  a  bright  clear  morning  in  June,  two 
young  Romans  stood  waiting  before  the 
Church  of  St.  Peter. 

"  It  will  be  a  sight  worth  seeing,"  ex- 
claimed one  of  them,  "  a  meeting  between 
Alcibiades  and  Diogenes." 

In  a  few  moments  they  perceived  Raphael 
approaching.  He  was  surrounded  by  his 
pupils,  thirteen  in  number,  yet  distinguished 
from  them  all  by  his  picturesque  and  grace- 
ful costume,  his  beretta  and  black  plumes. 
By  his  side  walked  his  most  cherished  and 
devoted  pupil,  Julio  Romano ;  then  came 
promiscuously,  Francesco  Penni,  Pellegrino, 
Pierino  del  Vaga,  Pollidoro  da  Caravaggio, 
Matturino  Bartolomeo,  and  others.  It  was 
not  a  silent  group  ;  there  was  much  gaiety, 
conversing  and  gesticulation.  Knots  of  peo- 
ple stood  waiting  to  see  them  pass  ;  and  as 
the  bright  Italian  sun  darted  its  beams 
among  them,  it  seemed  to  form  a  halo 
around  the  beloved  and  youthful  master. 

"  Look,"  exclaimed  one  of  the  Roman 
cavaliers,  "  Diogenes  is  coming  !  now  for  the 
meeting !  " 


RAPHAEL.  139 

Michelangelo  appeared  at  a  little  distance, 
in  his  usual  dress,  his  beretta  drawn  low  over 
his  forehead,  yet  not  so  low  as  to  conceal  a 
pair  of  dark  piercing  eyes,  while  the  lines  of 
his  strongly  marked  face  inspired  common 
beholders  with  a  reverence  which  amounted 
almost  to  awe. 

When  he  perceived  Raphael  approaching 
he  did  not  change  his  demeanor,  excepting 
perhaps  a  little  compression  of  the  lips  ;  and 
he  walked  forward  with  folded  arms,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  building. 

Not  so  Raphael :  his  quick  eye  caught  the 
outline  of  the  mighty  master  ;  "  Zitto  !  "  * 
and  his  pupils  were  hushed.  As  Michel- 
angelo approached,  they  opened  to  either  side, 
and  the  rival  artists,  the  one  in  the  dignity 
of  mature  age,  the  other  in  the  bloom  of 
manhood,  stood  face  to  face.  Nothing  could 
be  more  remarkable  than  their  figures  ;  the 
firm  majestic  bearing  of  the  one,  and  the 
slight  graceful  proportions  of  the  other.  Ra- 
phael respectfully  doffed  his  beretta,  and 
Michelangelo  held  out  his  hand  which  the 
young  artist  slightly  touched.  It  were  well 
if  they  had  thus  parted. 

*  Silence. 


140  RAPHAEL. 

But  Julio  Romano  who  was  the  ardent 
admirer  of  both,  and  wished  for  a  better  un- 
derstanding between  them,  exclaimed  "  I  am 
glad  you  did  not  pass  without  recognizing 
each  other." 

."  How  could  I  ?  "  replied  Michelangelo, 
'•  when  the  Sanzio  marches  the  street  like  a 
provost,  all  his  Serjeants  about  him." 

"  And  how  could  I  fail  to  distinguish 
Michelangelo,"  exclaimed  Raphael,  his  dark 
blue  eye  kindling,  "  when  he  marches  the 
street  alone,  like  an  executioner." 

Raphael  collected  from  every  part  of  the 
world  medallions  of  intaglios  and  antiques  to 
assist  him  in  his  designs.  He  loved  splendor 
and  conviviality,  and  gave  offence  thereby  to 
the  rigid  and  austere.  It  was  said  that  he 
had  a  prospect  of  changing  the  graceful 
beretta  for  a  cardinal's  hat ;  but  this  idea 
might  have  arisen  from  the  delay  which  ex- 
isted in  his  marriage  Avith  cardinal  Bibiano's 
niece,  whose  hand  her  uncle  had  offered  to 
him.  Peremptorily  to  reject  this  proposal  of 
the  Cardinal  without  giving  offence  would 
have  been  impossible,  and  Raphael  was  too 
gentle  in  his  own  feelings  voluntarily  to  in- 
jure another's ;  but  he  was  not  one  to  sacri- 
fice his  affections  to  ambition. 


RAPHAEL. 


141 


Whatever  were  the  struggles  of  his  heart 
they  were  early  terminated.  Amidst  the 
caresses  of  the  great,  the  fond  and  devoted 
friendship  of  his  equals,  the  enthusiastic  love 
of  his  pupils,  the  adulation  of  his  inferiors, 
while  crowned  with  wealth,  fame  and  honor, 
and  regarded  as  the  equal  of  the  hitherto 
greatest  artist  in  the  world,  he  was  suddenly 
called  away.  He  died  on  Good  Friday,  the 
day  of  his  birth,  at  the  age  of  thirty-seven, 
1520. 

We  are  sometimes  impressed  with  venera- 
tion when  those  who  have  even  drunk  the 
cup  of  life  almost  to  its  dregs,  resign  it  with 
resignation,  and  Christian  faith.  But  Ra- 
phael calmly  and  firmly  resigned  it  when  it 
was  full  to  the  brim. 

Leo  X  and  Cardinal  Bibiano  were  by  his 
bed-side.  The  sublime  picture  of  the  Trans- 
figuration, the  last  and  greatest  which  he 
painted,  was  placed  opposite  to  him,  by  his 
own  desire.  How  impressive  must  have 
been  the  scene  !  His  dying  eye  turned  from 
the  crucifix  he  held  in  his  hand  to  the  glory 
of  the  beatified  Saviour. 

His  cotemporaries  speak  of  him  as  affec- 
tionate, disinterested,  modest  and  sincere  ;  en- 
couraging humble    merit,  and  freely  giving 


142  RAPHAEL. 

his  advice  and  assistance  where  it  was  need- 
ed and  deserved. 

The  earnestness  with  which  Bibiano  pro- 
moted and  desired  the  union  between  Rapha- 
el and  his  niece,  the  respect  and  tenderness 
which  the  lady  herself  manifested  for  him 
in  requesting  that  her  ashes  might  rest  in  the 
same  tomb  with  his,  are  one  among  ma- 
ny testimonies  of  the  esteem  and  affection 
with  which  all,  who  knew  him  intimately, 
regarded  him.  He  was  buried  with  great 
pomp,  and  with  true  sorrow  from  a  thousand 
hearts,  in  the  Pantheon  at  Rome,  and  his 
remains  have  been  recently  re-interred  in  a 
sarcophagus  taken  from  the  ruins  of  the 
ancient  city. 

It  is  pleasant  to  gather  evidences  of  the 
high  estimation  in  which  Raphael  was  held. 
Lanzi  says, — '•  He  so  much  excited  the  ad- 
miration of  Leo  and  of  all  Rome,  that  they 
regarded  him  as  a  man  sent  from  heaven  to 
revive  the  ancient  splendor  of  the  eternal 
city." 

He  also  alludes  to  his  cultivation  of  history 
and  poetry.  He  wrote  sonnets  ;  but  it  does 
not  appear  that  any  have  been  preserved. 
The   following   letter   is   without  doubt  au- 


RAPHAEL. 


143 


thentic.  It  is  written  in  the  old  Italian,  and 
will  be  found  in  the  preface  to  the  life  of 
Raphael,  in  the  fifth  volume  of  Vasari.  The 
mention  of  his  early  friend  Taddeo  Taddei, 
is  a  testimony  to  his  grateful  and  affectionate 
feelings.  It  seems  probable  that  the  letter 
was  written  to  his  old  master  Perugino ; 
though  no  superscription  is  preserved  :  — 

^■Most  dear  Sir,  dear  to  me  as  a  father, 

"  I  have  received  your  letter  in  which  1 
learn  the  death  of  our  illustrious  Duke.  May 
God  have  mercy  on  his  soul !  I  could  not  read 
your  account  without  tears  ;  but,  for  these 
things  which  are  inevitable  we  must  have 
patience  and  submit  to  the  will  of  God.  The 
other  day  I  wrote  to  my  Uncle  to  send  me 
the  painting  of  the  prophetess,  which  is 
under  that  of  oiu-  lady,  but  he  has  not  sent 
it ;  and  I  beg  you  to  inform  him,  whenever 
there  is  an  opportunity  to  send,  in  order  that 
I  may  please  her  ladyship,  since  you  know  we 
are  now  quite  in  need  of  her  patronage.  I  re- 
quest you  also  to  tell  my  Uncle  and  the  San- 
ta, that  if  Taddeo  Taddei,  of  whom  Ave  have 
spoken  several  times,  should  come  to  Urbino, 
they  must  treat  him  well,  without  regarding 
expense,  and  you  too  will  have  the  goodness 


144  RAPHAEL. 

to  pay  him  honor  for  my  sake  ;  for  I  am  under 
greater  obUgations  to  him  than  to  any  man 
Uving.  For  the  painting  I  have  not  fixed 
any  price  yet,  and  shall  not  do  it,  because  it 
will  be  better  that  its  value  should  be  deter- 
mined by  a  third  person.  I  have  not  written 
to  you  on  this  subject,  because  I  am  still  un- 
certain about  it.  The  owner  of  the  painting 
has  promised  to  furnish  me  with  work  to  the 
amount  of  three  hundred  gold  ducats,  both 
here  and  in  France.  After  the  festivals  I 
shall  have  it  in  my  power  to  let  you  know 
what  the  picture  will  amount  to,  for  I  have 
already  finished  the  cartoon,  and  will  fix  ev- 
ery thing  about  it  after  Easter  Sunday.  1 
should  like,  if  it  is  possible,  to  have  a  letter 
to  the  Gonfaloniere  of  Florence  from  the 
Signor  Prefetto.  A  few  days  since,  I  wrote 
to  my  Uncle  and  to  Gionomo  at  Rome  to 
procure  me  one,  which  would  be  very  useful, 
on  account  of  a  certain  room  to  be  painted, 
and  for  which  his  Holiness  will  give  the 
orders. 

"  I  wish  you,  if  possible,  to  send  me  such 
a  letter,  which  I  am  almost  sm"e  you  will  ob- 
tain from  Signor  Prefetto,  if  you  ask  it  in  my 
name,  mentioning  me  to  him  as  his  old  friend 
and  servant. 


RAPHAEL.  145 

"  Remember  me  to  the  master    ....    and 

to  Rodolpho,  and  to  all  our  friends.     April,  M. 

D.  VIII.  Your  Raphaello, 

Painter  at  Florence. 

An  inscription  in  Latin  was  placed  in  the 
paternal  mansion  in  which  Raphael  was  born.* 
The  following  is  a  literal  translation  :  — 

"  Never  to  die, 

within  these  humble  walls, 

the  excellent  painter  Raphael 

was  born 

on  the  8th  before  the  Ides  of  April,  1483. 

Revere, 

therefore.  Stranger, 

the  name,  and  the  genius  of  the  place  ; 

nor  wonder ;  (for) 

A  divine  potency  presides  in  human  affairs 

And  is  wont  often  to  shut  great  things  within  small."' 

Troughout  the  world,  a  sacred  polence  plays, 
And  often  crowns  the  beggar's  head  with  bays 


*    NUNQUAM   MORITURUS, 

EXIGUIS    HISCE   IN   AEDIBUS, 

EXIMIU-S   ILLE    PICTOR   RAPHAEL 

NATUS    EST. 

OCT.    ID.    APR.  AN.    MCDXXCIII. 

VENERARE 

IGITUR    HOSPES 

NOMEN    ET   GENIUM    LOCI. 

NK    MIRKRE 

LUDIT     IN    HUMtNlS    DIVIN\     ForKNTI*     BEBOi 
ET    SAEPE      I.S    I-ARV13    CLAUDERK    MAG.NA    SOLKT. 

10 


ANTONIO  ALLEGRI  DA  COREGGIO. 


"  Here  comes  Antonio,  with  his  new  pic- 
ture," said  Maddelena  to  her  father  Nicolo ; 
"do,  dear  father,  speak  kindly  to  him." 

"  Nay,  daughter,"  replied  Nicolo,  "  thou 
canst  not  expect  me  to  be  as  dove-like  as 
thyself.  I  will  speak  to  him  as  one  man 
may  speak  to  another.  It  would  have  been 
well  for  thee,  had  I  not  yielded  to  thy  fool- 
ish fancy  in  the  first  place.  Hadst  thou 
married  Pietro,  thou  wouldst  have  taken  thy 
proper  station  in  the  world,  and  been  mis- 
tress of  one  of  the  finest  Inns  in  Coreggio.  I 
should  not  see  thee,  as  I  do  now,  wanting  the 
necessaries  of  life." 

"  Father,"  said  Maddelena,  "  thou  art  mis- 
taken ;  I  want  nothing.  I  am  the  happiest 
being  in  the  world." 

"Then    why    dost    thou    weep?"    said 


COREGGIO.  147 

Nicolo,  for  the  tears  of  the   young  wife  were 
falling  like  a  morning  shower. 

"  Look ! "  said  she,  "  Antonio  is  just 
coming  up  the  hill  —  see  how  feeble  he 
walks  —  he  can  scarcely  carry  his  picture  — 
ah,  he  stops  to  rest  - —  do  you  see  how  pale 
he  is  ? " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  see  ;  he  had  better  have  taken 
my  advice,  and  worked  at  my  trade  ;  I  offer- 
ed to  give  him  a  year's  instruction  for  no  re- 
muneration but  his  services ;  but  nothing 
Avould  do  but  he  must  paint  pictures,  that  are 
good  for  nothing  in  the  world.  Now  jars, 
and  pipkins,  and  milk-pans,  and  flower-pots, 
are  good  for  something,  and  will  always 
bring  money." 

"■  Yes,  father,  but  Antonio's  works  will 
bring  him  fame  —  glory.  " 

'' Fame,  glory  !  nonsense!  canst  thou  live 
upon  these'  commodities  ?  " 

"  We  want  but  very  little  to  live  upon  : 
indeed,  father,  if  Antonio  were  well,  I  should 
not  have  a  wish  ungratified.  He  is  so  kind, 
so  gentle,  so  fond  of  our  little  Giovanni,  and 
of  the  infant.  Oh,  there  are  few  so  blest  as  I 
am!  To  have  such  a  husband,  father, — one 
whose  genius  will  lead  him  to  immortality !  " 

"  It  is  in  a  fair  way  of  leading  ///ce  to  im- 


148  COREGGld. 

mortality,  my  poor  child,"  said  Nicolo  will 
feeling.     "  Thou  art  almost  as  pale  as  he.     1 
little  thought,  when  I  let  thee  out  of  my  fold, 
that  thou  wouldst  find  no  other  shepherd." 

"  Say  what  you  please  to  7?ie,"  said  Mad- 
delena,  "  you  are  my  father,  my  deavfathe?', 
and  I  can  bear  it  all ;  but  I  beseech  you  do 
not  say  such  things  to  my  poor  Antonio : 
they  make  him  miserable,  they  break  his 
heart." 

"  I  wish  you  had  manied  Pietro,"  reiterat- 
ed Nicolo,  "  he  has  a  stout  heart." 

"  Rather  say,  you  wish  I  was  in  my  grave  ; 
for  I  would  sooner  be  there,  than  married  to 
Jmn.  No,  no,  you  do  not  wish  such  misery 
for  your  poor  child.  Look,  father  !  Antonio 
is  up  again,  and  coming  — ah,  when  you  see 
his  picture,  I  am  sure  you  will  say  to  him, 
'  You  did  right,  Antonio,  to  pursue  painting, 
it  will  lead  you  to  immortality.'  " 

Antonio  slowly  ascended  the  hill,  and 
Maddelena  met  him.  "  Let  me  look  at  it," 
said  she,  and  he  turned  the  picture  towards 
her.  "  How  beautiful !  "  she  exclaimed, 
"  they  are  just  such  faces  as  we  shall  see  in 
heaven." 

When  they  entered  the  house,  the  painter 
modestly  set  down  the  picture  with  its  face 
to  the  wall. 


COREGGIO.  149 

"A  warm  day,  Antonio,"  said  Nicolo, 
'■  thou  shalt  have  a  cup  of  my  good  old  wine 
to  refresh  thee." 

"  Rather  a  cup  of  milk,"  replied  Antonio, 
"  I  do  not  love  your  heating  draughts:  they 
only  add  to  the  heat  here,"  and  he  laid  his 
liand  upon  his  breast. 

"  My  dear  husband, "  said  Maddelena, 
soothingly,  '-'thou  hast  painted  too  closely 
for  these  few  days  past ;  but  it  is  for  you, 
father,  Antonio  has  been  engaged.  He  said 
he  would  paint  a  picture  for  your  room,  and 
he  has  brought  it." 

"  It  is  but  a  little  thing,"  said  Antonio 
rising,  "  but  I  will  show  it  to  you." 

*'  Wait  a  moment."  exclaimed  Maddelena, 
•'  I  hear  our  little  Giovanni,  and  baby  too  is 
awake,"  and  going  out  she  returned  in  a  few 
moments  with  the  child  in  her  arms,  seated 
herself  near  the  window,  with  Giovanni  lean- 
ing upon  her  lap,  and  said,  "  Come,  Antonio, 
I  am  ready." 

Slowly  and  with  some  trepidation  the 
painter  displayed  the  picture.  It  was  a 
Madonna  with  the  infant  in  her  arms,  and 
John  near  her  —  Maria  and  her  children  — 
bearing  a  very  striking  resemblance  to  the 
living  group  before  them. 


150  COREGGIO. 

Nicolo  gazed  upon  it  ;  his  stern  features 
relaxed ;  he  attempted  to  speak,  and  burst 
into  tears. 

"  My  daughter  !  "  he  at  length  exclaimed, 
''my  little  Giovanni !  just  as  they  look  now," 
and  suddenly  turning  to  Antonio,  he  seized 
his  hand.  "  Yes,"  continued  he,  "  thou  wert 
right  to  pursue  painting  ;  it  will  lead  thee  to 
immortality.^^ 

"  Did  I  not  say  so  ?  "  said  the  delighted 
wife,  and  her  arms  were  in  a  moment  around 
her  father's  neck. 

"  Good  kind  Antonio,"  said  Nicolo,  "  I  will 
not  find  fault  with  Maddelena  that  she  did 
not  choose  Pietro  —  no,  no,  he  cannot  paint 
such  a  picture  as  this  —  he  is  a  very  good 
tapster,  and  keeps  good  wines,  and  a  good 
Inn  ;  but  thou  hast  chosen  well,  my  daugh- 
ter." 

It  was  a  happy  day  for  Antonio  and  his 
wife.  Nicolo,  who  estimated  the  value  of 
the  picture,  by  the  perfect  resemblance  the 
mother  and  children  bore  to  the  beings  he 
loved  best,  and  by  his  devotional  impres- 
sions, repeatedly  exclaimed,  "  Pietro  never 
could  have  painted  such  a  picture  as  that." 

"  Don't  let  us  talk  of  Pietro,  father,"  said 
Maddelena,  "  I  never  hear  his  name  without 
shuddering." 


COREGGIO.  151 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him,  pray  ? " 
asked  Nicolo,  "is  a  man  to  be  despised 
because  he  takes  a  fancy  to  a  young  girl, 
and  is  wilhng  to  give  her,  both  hand  and 
heart  ? " 

"  You  do  not  know  him,  indeed,  father.  He 
persecutes  Antonio,  and  will  never  forgive 
him  for  the  preference  I  have  shown  him." 

"  No  wonder,"  said  Antonio,  "  that  he 
envies  me  the  treasure  I  have  gained  —  ah, 
dear  Maddelena,  we  will  not  be  hard  upon 
poor  Pietro  ;  his  disappointment  was  heavy. 
He  is  solitary  in  his  plenty ;  thou  mightest 
have  shared  it  with  him  :  now  thou  hast 
poverty,"  his  eye  glistened,  but  a  smile  play- 
ed round  his  mouth  as  he  added, — "  and  thy 
Antonio." 

"  And  believe  me,  friend,"  said  the  young 
wife  with  enthusiasm,  "  I  should  not  love 
thee  more  if  thou  hadst  the  wealth  of  the 
great  Filippo  Strozzi." 

It  might  be  truly  said  this  was  the  hap- 
piest day  of  Maddelena's  life.  For  the  first 
time  her  father,  who  had  always  despised 
Antonio's  art,  had  given  full  and  complete 
testimony  to  its  power. 

Little  Giovanni  who  had  boon  furnished 
with  an  agnus  dei,  to  represent  the  St.  John, 


152  COREGGIO. 

was  full  of  the  restless  glee  of  infancy  :  and 
Antonio,  animated  by  the  scene,  seemed  to 
partake  not  only  of  the  glow  of  pleasure,  but 
of  the  health  that  prevailed.  His  pale  cheek 
borrowed  a  fresher  hue,  his  eyes  sparkled 
with  unwonted  brightness,  and  his  soft  mel- 
ancholy smile  was  changed  occasionally  into 
one  of  genial  gaiety. 

There  are  few  days  set  down  in  the  calen- 
dar of  a  man's  life,  in  which  happiness  comes 
in  her  own  pure  and  original  beauty.  When 
she  does,  she  is  attended  by  holy  affections  ; 
she  comes  as  when  she  first  wandered  in  the 
garden  of  Eden,  and  fills  the  heart  with  her 
presence.  Fame,  wealth,  and  ambition,  the 
idols  of  the  earth,  are  not  there  —  but  love 
with  her  tender  i-elations,  and  holy  ties,  at  once 
the  image  and  the  boon  of  its  divine  Creator. 

Even  Nicolo,  so  absorbed  in  the  every  day 
affairs  of  life,  so  taken  up  with  his  pottery, 
his  pipkins  and  pans,  became  in  a  degree  in- 
tellectual ;  and  when  evening  arrived,  and  it 
was  necessary  to  part,  the  most  perfect  con- 
fidence existed  between  the  group.  Madde- 
lena  with  her  infant  in  her  arms,  and  her 
little  Giovanni  holding  his  father's  hand,  and 
running  by  her  side,  with  the  other  children 
following,  felt  as  she  returned  to  their  hum- 


COREGGIO.  153 

ble  dwelling,  that  life  had  nothing  more  to 
bestow.  Their  road  lay  by  the  four-storied 
and  ornamented  house  of  Pietro.  The  piaz- 
zas were  full  of  peasantry  collected  in  groups. 
Mnle-drivers  and  carriers  seemed  to  be  the 
heroes  of  the  revelry.  One,  however,  was 
there  who  had  fixed  upon  them  a  malignant 
eye,  and  that  was  the  host.  He  stood 
brandishing  a  flask  of  wine  and  declaiming 
with  a  loud  voice.  The  serenity  and  con- 
tentment pictured  upon  their  faces,  roused 
the  evil  passions  of  his  nature,  and  as  soon 
as  the  piazza  was  cleared,  he  bent  his  steps 
towards  the  house  of  Nicolo. 

When  he  entered,  he  found  him  stand- 
ing before  the  picture  Antonio  had  brought 
him. 

'^  What  daub  have  you  there  ? "  said 
Pietro. 

"  Daub  !  "  repeated  Nicolo  ;  "  wait  till  you 
see  it  by  day-light,  before  you  judge  of  it. 
There  is  Maddelena  and  little  Giovanni  as 
perfect  as  life,  and  though  it  is  the  image 
of  my  own  daughter  that  I  have  dandled 
on  my  knee,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  feel 
as  if  I  must  prostrate  myself  before  her  in 
the  picture  and  worship  her."  Then,  with 
a  clear  deep  bass  he  began  :  — 


154  COREGGIO. 

O  Saiictissima,  O  purissima 
Dulcis  Virgo  Maria, 
Mater  amaia,  inlenerata, 
Ora,  ora,  pro  nobis." 

"  Why,  what  has  come  over  thee,  Nicolo  ?  " 
exclaimed  Pietro  ;  "  has  Antonio  bewitched 
thee,  as  he  did  thy  daughter  ?  " 

"I  know  not,"  repUed  he,  "but  never 
did  I  feel  myself  a  true  Catholic  till  I  saw 
this  picture." 

"  Nonsense  !  because  Antonio  can  paint 
the  eyes,  nose  and  mouth  of  his  wife,  which 
any  body  conld  do  if  they  were  directly 
before  him,  thou  must  forsooth  think  he  has 
done  a  great  work  ;  but  I  will  tell  thee  a 
secret,  Nicolo.  Thy  poor  daughter  has  a 
hard  lot.  Antonio  cares  for  nothing  but  his 
pictures  ;  there  he  sits  before  his  easel  from 
morning  to  night.  When  it  is  time  for 
dinner,  what  have  they  to  eat  ?  Nothing ! 
Antonio  takes  his  cup  of  milk ;  and  poor 
Maddelena  and  her  little  Giovanni  and  the 
other  children  may  take  a  cup  of  cold  water." 

"■  Indeed,  I  know  they  are  very  poor ;  but 
they  love  each  other  so  much  that  they  are 
happy.  Antonio  is  promised  a  round  sum  for 
his  picture  that  he  is  now  painting ;  besides 
thou    knowest    me    too   well    to   suppose    I 


COREGGIO. 


155 


would  let  them  suffer.  Ah  !  hadst  thou  seen 
them  to-day,  thou  wouldst  have  felt  as  I  did, 
that  they  wanted  nothing. ^^ 

"  Poor  Nicolo  !  "  exclahned  Pietro,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders,  "  well,  well,  I  am  glad 
thou  art  deceived ;  it  is  better  for  thee  !  " 

"  Nay,  Pietro ;  if  you  have  anything  to 
tell  me,  speak  out." 

'■'■  Take  home  thy  daughter  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Take  home  thy  daughter !  " 

''  Speak  out !  "  said  Nicolo  impatiently, 

"  No,  no,"  replied  Pietro,  ''  I  have  said 
enough ;  it  is  not  my  business  to  lose  the 
patronage  of  a  great  man,  to  serve  a  woman 
who  has  scorned  me.  Find  out  the  rest 
thyself;  I  have  given  thee  a  clue.  Good 
night."  He  took  his  cap  and  turned  to  go, 
but  Nicolo  seized  him  with  an  iron  grasp. 

"  You  stir  not  from  here,"  said  he,  "  till 
you  tell  me  what  you  mean." 

Pietro  turned  pale.  "  Promise  me  secrecy, 
then,"  said  he. 

"  I  promise  thee  nothing,"  said  Nicolo  ; 
"  it  is  for  my  child,  my  own  heart's  blood, 
that  I  am  contending  ;  and  I  will  have  a 
death-struggle,  ere  we  part  without  clearing 
up  this  mystery." 


156  COREGGIOv 

"  Very  well.  If  thou  insistest,"  said 
Pietro,  drawing  a  short  knife  from  his  belt. 
Suddenly,  his  manner  changed.  "  Thou 
seest,  good  Nicolo,  I  am  armed  ;  I  could  take 
thy  life,  if  I  pleased,  —  but  I  am  thy  friend, 
and  will  tell  thee  all.  But  thou  wilt  not  ruin 
me  for  this  good  turn  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Nicolo,  softening,  "  fear 
me  not." 

"  Thou  knowest  Vecchina  ?  It  is  he  for 
whom  Antonio  is  painting  the  picture." 

"  So  1  have  understood,"  replied  Nicolo. 

"  Dost  thou  know  the  price  he  is  to  receive 
for  it  ?  " 

"  Sixty  crowns,"  said  Nicolo,  ''  and  the 
picture  is  nearly  completed." 

"  And  art  thou  so  simple,  my  poor  Nicolo, 
as  to  think  any  one  would  give  that  sum  for 
a  daub  of  Antonio's  "brush  ?  To  be  sure 
they  gave  him  a  good  price  for  his  cupolas,  in 
Parma,  and  so  they  did  the  other  head  me- 
chanics. But  I  will  tell  thee  the  truth,  it 
is  Maddelena,  thy  daughter,  that  is  to  be 
bartered." 

"  Impossible  !  "  exclaimed  Nicolo. 

"  Too  true.  I  heard  it  all  myself,  with 
my  own  ears,  as  I  stood  near  the  trellice  that 
concealed   me.     But  I  pray  thee  be  calm  — 


COREGGIO.  157 

keep  the  secret ;  take  home  thy  daughter  and 
her  child,  and  you  will  see  whether  he  gets 
sixty  crowns  for  his  picture.  Good  night, 
friend  Nicolo." 

Poor  Nicolo  did  not  close  his  eyes  that 
night :  he  was  perplexed  how  to  manage  the 
matter  and  not  implicate  Pietro,  whose  secret 
he  felt  that  he  had  wrested  from  him. 

In  the  morning,  he  went  immediately  to 
the  cottage  of  Antonio.  As  he  passed 
Pietro's  house  the  landlord  stood  at  the  door ; 
he  nodded  to  Nicolo,  and  placed  his  finger  on 
his  mouth,  in  token  of  silence. 

When  the  father  arrived,  he  found  Antonio 
painting,  and  Maddelena  sitting  by  the  side  of 
his  easel,  with  her  infant  in  her  arms  and 
Giovanni  leaning  on  her  lap  ;  the  other  chil- 
dren were  playing.  Both  welcomed  him 
warmly.  On  their  side,  never  had  there 
been  such  perfect  confidence. 

"  I  have  come,"  said  he,  abruptly,  ''  to 
propose  to  thee,  Maddelena,  to  return  to  thy 
father's  house.  Antonio  is  always  engaged 
at  his  pictures,  and  I  am  very  lonely.  Come 
home  to  me,  my  child,  and  bring  thy 
children." 

"  Surely,  father,  you  are  not  serious,"  ex-l 
claimed  Maddelena  ;  "  you  cannot  ask  me  td 
leave  Antonio." 


158  COKEGGIO. 

"He  has  his  pictures;  he  cares  not  for 
thee,"  said  Nicolo  lowering  his  voice,  the 
roughness  of  his  manner  checked  by  her 
gentle  reply. 

Antonio  laid  down  his  brush,  and  hastily 
arose. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Nicolo,  "  I  know  all. 
Sixty  crowns  thou  art  to  receive  from  Vec- 
china." 

"  It  was  a  generous  offer,"  replied  An- 
tonio, "  but  his  own  ;  I  fixed  no  price." 

"  How  came  the  fiend  to  fix  his  eye  on 
my  daughter  ?  "  asked  Nicolo,  with  returning 
ferocity. 

"  He  saw  the  picture  I  painted  for  you," 
replied  Antonio  mildly,  "  and  I  think  he  fell 
in  love  with  Maddelena,  for  he  offered  me 
sixty  crowns  for  — 

"  And  thou  wert  base  enough  to  accept  the 
offer  ?  "  interrupted  Nicolo. 

"  I  know  not,"  said  Antonio,  "  why  you 
call  it  base.  Gladly,  most  gladly  would  I 
keep  all  my  pictures  myself ;  but  we  are  poor, 
and  I  must  earn  money." 

"  And  you  confess  it  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  not  ?  " 

"  Hark  ye  !  Antonio  Allegri,"  exclaimed 
Nicolo,  his  face   scarlet  with  anger;    "your 


COREGGIO.  159 

pictures  are  your  own.  If  you  can  make 
any  thing  by  painting  canvass  and  wood,  you 
are  welcome  to  do  it ;  but  Lena  is  still  my 
own  daughter,  and  any  base  projects  you 
may  form  with  regard  to  her,  will  be  your 
ruin." 

"  My  dear  father,"  said  Maddelena,  "  what 
has  happened  to  you  ?  who  has  been  poison- 
ing your  mind  ?  who  has  spoken  ill  of  Anto- 
nio? and  what  have  they  said  ?  "y 

"  Alas !  my  child,  you  little  Hnow  what  a 
horrible  scheme  has  been  projected  between 
this  monster  and  Signer  Vecchina." 

"  There  has  been  no  horrible  scheme. 
Antonio  engaged  to  paint  him  a  picture  just 
like  the  one  he  gave  you.  Indeed,  father,  I 
must  tell  you,  though  Antonio  charged  me 
not  to  say  one  word  about  it,  Vecchina 
offered  him  sixty  crowns  for  that  very  pic- 
ture, but  he  said  '  No  ;  my  good  father-in-law 
has  given  me  his  most  precious  treasure,  and 
this  is  the  only  return  I  can  make  him.'  " 

"  What,  then,  could  Pietro  mean,  when  he 
told  me  that  Antonio  was  to  give  you  up  to 
Vecchina  for  sixty  crowns." 

"Pather,"  said  Maddelena,  sorrowfully, 
*'  I  am  not  surprised  at  any  low  calimmy  that 
Pietro  might  contrive  against  my  Antonio ; 


160  COREGGIO. 

but  that  you  could  for  a  moment  listen  to  it 
fills  me  with  grief  and  astonishment.  How- 
little  you  know  us !  " 

"  I  perceive,"  said  Antonio,  with  mildness, 
"  that  Pietro  might  have  been  mistaken. 
The  morning  Vecchina  came  to  me  and  saw 
the  picture  I  painted  for  you,  he  said  it  must 
be  just  such  a  one,  and  when  he  parted,  he 
turned  back  and  added,  '  Remember  /  am  to 
have  your  Maddelena.^  Pietro  was  saunter- 
ing round,  a#d  no  doubt  heard  imperfectly  ; 
but  he  is  a  bad  man  to  conceive  so  base  a 
thought." 

"My  children,"  exclaimed  Nicolo,  "lam 
old  and  childish,  and  no  match  for  Pietro, 
and  I  will  see  him  no  more." 

"  Thank  Heaven,"  said  Maddelena. 

"  Forgive  me,  Antonio,"  said  Nicolo,  hold- 
ing out  his  hand. 

Antonio  took  it,  and  gently  pressed  it, 
"  Forgive  we,"  said  he,  meekly,  "  that  1 
have  brought  poverty  on  thy  daughter." 

When  Nicolo  had  gone,  Antonio,  instead  of 
resuming  his  painting,  sat  with  his  head  lean- 
ing on  his  hand,  apparently  in  deep  and  mel- 
ancholy thought.  Maddelena  looked  earnest- 
ly and  often  at  him  ;  at  length  she  gently 
approached,  and,  bending  down,  imprinted  a 
fervent  kiss  upon  his  forehead. 


COREGGIO.  161 

''  My  father  says  right,"  said  she,  "  he  is 
old,  and  no  match  for  Pietro.  Do  not  be  cast 
down,  my  dear  Antonio  ;  let  not  such  foolish 
talk  distress  you." 

"  It  is  not  that  which  makes  me  unhappy," 
replied  Antonio,  "  no  man  in  his  senses  could 
imagine  such  wickedness.  But  I  have  been 
a  cruel  friend  to  thee,  Maddelena,  and  yet  I 
love  thee  better  than  my  life.  I  have  con- 
demned thee  to  poverty.  Thy  father  was 
right  when  he  opposed  our  union.  But  it  is 
not  too  late  yet  —  I  will  no  longer  deceive 
myself  or  wrong  you  and  the  little  ones  —  I 
will  paint  no  more.  And  yet  it  is  hard  to  re- 
nounce that,  which  next  to  thyself  has  been 
my  joy  ;  but  no  matter  —  it  is  all  deception  ; 
fool  that  I  was  to  believe  myself  inspired  ! 
I,  who  have  never  seen  the  works  of  the 
great  Michelangelo  !  Thank  heaven  it  is  not 
too  late  —  I  will  cut  wood,  or  drudge  in  the 
potteries.  My  poor  Maddelena !  methinks 
thou  lookest  pale  —  ah  thine  has  been  a  hard 
lot  —  I  have  sat  at  my  easel  from  morning 
till  night ;  and  what  have  I  done,  but  paint 
canvass  and  wood  ?  and  because  I  had  never 
seen  any  of  the  great  masters,  truly  I  thought 
myself  inspired.  But  it  is  over,  dearest ;  I 
will  toil  for  thee  with  these  hands  at  the 
11 


162  COREGGIO. 

most  menial  offices.  I  will  paint  no  more. 
Yet,  after  the  long  wearisome  day  is  over, 
surely  I  may  sit  by  thy  side,  and  imagine 
such  scenes  and  such  beings  as  I  once  loved 
to  paint ;  this  cannot  be  wrong,  and  it  will 
be  my  recreation.  Ah,  dear  wife,  sometimes 
I  have  such  blessed  visions!  they  are  not 
of  this  earth !  the  time  will  come  when  we 
may  feed  our  souls  on  beauty,  and  not  go 
hungry  for  it.  Who  calls  ?  Did  not  some 
one  speak  ?  "  * 

"  No  one,  dear,"  said  Maddelena :  "  there  is 
nobody  here  but  myself." 

"  Then  I  was  dreaming  ;  I  thought  some- 
body said,  '  Antonio,'  in  a  faint  low  whisper. 
There  is  no  air  here,  I  think :  what  has 
come  over  me  ?  Maddelena,  put  your  hand 
upon  my  forehead  ;  there  now  I  am  better, — 
I  see  the  trees  through  the  window,  and  the 
blessed  light  —  just  now  it  was  dark,  all 
dark  !  I  am  very  weak,  but  I  will  toil  for 
thee  and  my  children.     Thy  father  shall  not 

*  Lanzi  thus  quotes  Annibal  Carracci  as  writing  of 
Coreggio  nearly  a  century  after.  "  It  grieves  me  to  the 
heart,  only  to  think  of  the  unhappiness  of  the  poor  Antonio; 
that  so  great  a  man,  if  indeed  he  were  a  man,  and  not  an 
incarnate  angel,  should  be  lost  here  in  a  country,  where  he 
was  not  known,  and  exalted  to  the  stars,  should  neverthe- 
less die  in  misery." 


COREGGIO.  163 

say  again,  '  Come  home  to  me,  my  child  ; 
Antonio  does  not  care  for  thee.'  " 

The  tears  of  the  young  wife  fell  on  the 
fair  curling  locks  of  her  husband,  as  she 
pressed  his  head  to  her  bosom. 

''  O  my  father,"  she  ejaculated,  "  what  a 
heart  hast  thou  pierced  !  "  Then,  suddenly 
rallying  her  spirits,  she  said  in  a  gay  tone, 
''  How  long  is  it,  husband,  since  thou  has  con- 
sidered my  father  such  a  judge  of  painting  ? 
Were  he  Raphael  or  the  great  Michelangelo 
himself,  methinks  thou  couldst  not  pay 
greater  deference  to  his  judgment :  he  is  a 
good  man,  and  a  true  man  ;  but  what  knows 
h.!  of  painting  ?  and  yet  there  was  a  voice 
that  spoke  to  his  heart,  when  he  beheld  thy 
Madonna :  did  l\p  not  shed  tears  and  say, 
'  Thy  art  will  lead  thee  to  immortality  ? '  " 

)'•  Ah  Maddelena !  "  exclaimed  Antonio, 
''  were  it  not  for  thine,  and  our  childrens' 
sake,  I  would  gladly  go  to  the  land  of  im- 
mortality. My  life  has  been  full  of  illusions. 
I  believed  myself  inspired  —  but  it  is  over 
—  I  will  finish  this  piece  and  take  it  to  Par- 
ma, and  then  farewell,  farewell  beloved  art !  " 

"  Nay,  dearest  husband,  thou  knowest  it 
was  for  thy  noble  art  [  loved  thee  ;  thou  hast 
no   right  to  renounce   it  ;  it  was  that  which 


lU 


COREGGIO. 


won  my  heart :  you  are  sick,  you  are  weary, 
you  will  feel  differently  when  you  have 
rested.  If  you  are  not  a  painter,  God  has  not 
sent  one  upon  the  earth.  And  why  do  you 
talk  of  poverty  :  are  those  poor  who  have  all 
they  want  ?  when  I  see  you  well,  and  can 
look  upon  your  beautiful  paintings,  I  am  the 
happiest  being  in  the  world.  How  exquisite 
is  that  Madonna !  there  is  more  of  heaven 
than  earth  in  that  face;  that  smile  too  —  it 
is  like  the  song  of  the  angels ;  it  proclaims 
peace  and  good  will  to  men.  Would  we 
could  keep  this  picture  ourselves  ;  I  know  not 
how  to  part  with  it.  Antonio,  you  have 
never  made  me  a  bridal  present  ;  such  a  one 
as  this  were  worthy  of  our  affection." 

"  You  know,  Maddelei:i{|,,  I  have  engaged 
it  to  Signer  Vecchina." 

"  Then  it  must  go,  and  I  will  live  upon 
the  remembrance  of  it." 

"  Dost  thou  indeed  prize  it  so  highly  ?  " 
said  Antonio,  in  a  voice  of  emotion,  "  then  I 
will  paint  one  more,  and  it  shall  be  thine.^^ 

"  Blessings  on  thee,"  said  Maddelena,  en- 
circling him  with  her  arms,  "  now  I  have  got 
back  again  my  own  Antonio." 

At  that  moment  Giovanni  rushed  in. 
"  Father,"  he  exclaimed,   "  here  is   a  brave 


COREGGIO.  165 

gentleman  coming,   just  such  a  one  as  you 
make  in  some  of  your  pictures." 

A  stranger  entered,  and  both  rose  to  re- 
ceive him.  "  Is  it  to  Antonio  Allegri,"  said  he, 
courteously  advancing,  "  that  I  am  speaking." 

"  That,  Sir,"  exclaimed  Antonio,  "  is  my 
name." 

"  I  came,"  said  the  stranger,  "to  see  the 
artist  who  painted  the  picture  of  la  Notte  in 
the  Church  of  Coreggio,  and  you  are  he !  " 

'•'  Yes,  Sir,  but  you  find  it  little  worth  see- 
ing." 

"Not  worth  seeing !  It  is  the  perfection 
of  painting  —  and  yet  more,  of  poetry  ;  the 
supernatural  light  wliich  streams  from  the 
child,  and  irradiates  the  picture,  is  truly  di- 
vine. The  face  of  the  virgin  mother,  Rapha- 
el would  have  admired.  I  was  dazzled  with 
the  beauty,  and,  like  the  female  who  shades 
her  eyes  with  her  hand,  unable  to  bear  the 
splendor,  I,  too,  for  a  moment,  closed  my 
eyes,  and  opened  them  to  turn  to  the  east- 
ern horizon,  where  a  new  morning  was  just 
rising  on  the  world." 

"  Ah !  it  were  well  for  me  if  I  had  never 
painted.  I  have  all  my  life  been  walking  in 
clouds;  but  the  mist  is  clearing  —  I  have 
wasted  a  great  deal  of  time  — tliis  would  not 


166  V  COREGGIO. 

be  much  matter,  if  I  had  not  injured  my 
family  by  it ;  but  this  picture  that  I  am  now 
completing,  and  one  other  which  I  have  just 
promised,  will  be  my  last.  I  have  but  little 
heart  to  paint  them." 

"  You  say  you  have  injured  your  family  : 
have  you  not  been  recompensed  for  your 
services  ?  you  have  painted  many  pieces  : 
there  are  the  cupolas  at  Parma,  in  fresco  ;  the 
St.  Jerome,which  is  termed  the  '  prince  of  pic- 
tures.' There,  too,  is  the  flight  into  Egypt ; 
ah,  how  beautiful  is  that  picture  !  the  Virgin 
seated  on  the  ground,  holding  the  cup  to 
the  angel,  who  pours  water  into  it  from  a 
vase  !  Against  her  knee  leans  the  youthful 
Saviour,  receiving  in  one  hand  the  dates 
which  Joseph  has  just  pulled  from  the  tree, 
and  seizing  with  the  other,  in  playful  earnest- 
ness, the  unoccupied  arm  of  his  mother,  in 
his  desire  to  drink.  Above  these,  that  exquis- 
ite group  of  angels,  rejoicing  in  the  safety  of 
the  holy  family  !  This  is  only  one  of  the  ad- 
mirable pictures  I  have  seen  from  you  :  is  it 
possible.  Sir,  that  you  have  not  been  recom- 
pensed for  them  ? " 

"  Yes,  Sir,  I  have  received  perhaps  more 
than  they  deserve,  but  it  is  all  little  enough 
for   us  to  live  upon.      I  thought  myself  an 


COREGGIO. 


167 


artist,  but  I  have  discovered  that  I  am  igno- 
rant of  the  principles  of  the  art.  I  have 
never  been  to  Rome  or  Florence  ;  I  have 
never  seen  the  works  of  Lionardo  da  Vinci, 
of  Michelangelo,  and  Raphael,  nor  of  his  dis- 
tinguished pupil  Julio  Romano  ;  I  drank  only 
at  the  fountain  of  nature,  and  the  stream  is 
dried  up.  Ah,  Sir,  self-taught  artists  like 
myself,  make  but  poor  pictures ;  but  it  is 
over  —  I  have  done  —  Maddelena  loves  me, 
and  for  her  sake  I  shall  paint  one  more." 

'^  Did  not  the  gentleness  and  sincerity  of 
your  manner  convince  me  otherwise,  T 
should  think  you  were  jesting,"  said  the 
stranger.  "  You  certainly  are  born  for  the  art ; 
and  for  ages  to  come,  the  glory  which  your 
pictures  shed,  will  cast  a  halo  round  your 
name.  You  must  pardon  my  freedom  ;  but, 
believe  me,  your  intention  wrongs  the  world. 
Hear  my  prediction  ;  the  artist  who  painted 
La  Notte,  St.  Jerome,  and  this  very  Madon- 
na, will  one  day  rank  with  Lionardo  da 
Vinci,  Michelangelo,  and  Raphael." 

"  Sir,  I  thank  you  for  your  kindness  —  it  is 
the  food  upon  which  I  live  ;  the  tenderness 
of  my  wife  has  long  supported  my  drooping 
spirit  —  I  think  I  was  not  made  to  live  here 
—  this  is  a  hard  world  ;  but  I  do  not  mean  to 


168  COREGGIO. 

complain ;  I  have  met  with  many  noble 
hearts,  and  I  will  remember  yom's  amongst 
them.  But  indeed,  Sir,  it  pains  me  that  you 
should  mention  these  great  names  in  con- 
nexion with  my  humble  attempts.  I  might 
have  done  better  with  instruction  and  the 
study  of  the  best  artists ;  but,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  one  noble  picture  of  Julio  Romano's, 
I  have  had  no  model  for  emulation.  That 
picture  was  my  day-dream :  you  will  smile, 
Sir,  but  I  named  my  second  son  Julio,  for 
the  great  artist." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?"  said  the  stranger,  with 
emotion,  "  he  is  inferior  to  you  in  the  beau- 
ties of  the  art." 

"  Ah,  Sir,  you  do  not  know  what  you  say  ; 
he  is  the  beloved  pupil  of  the  great  Raphael, 
and  the  friend  of  Michelangelo." 

"  It  were  strange  if  I  did  not  know,"  said 
the  artist.  "  Look,  Antonio,  this  medallion 
was  given  me  by  my  beloved  master ;  it  is 
the  head  of  Raphael,  and  you  behold  be- 
fore you  the  most  devoted  of  his  scholars, 
Julio  himself." 

"  Holy  angels,"  exclaimed  Antonio,  "  then 
it  is  to  Julio  himself  I  have  been  speaking ;" 
and,  overcome  by  the  events  of  the  day,  by 
his  own  emotions,  and  the  extreme  delicacy 


COREGGIO. 


169 


of  his  health,  he  sank,  fainting,  upon  a 
seat.  Maddelena  supported  him  in  her  arms. 
"  Ah,  Sir,"  said  she,  "  my  poor  hushand  is 
very  ill.  He  cannot  bear  surprise  ;  he  has 
been  cruelly  agitated  this  morning." 

In  a  few  moments  he  recovered.  The 
deathly  paleness  remained,  but  the  gentle- 
ness of  his  expression  returned.  "  You  see. 
Sir,"  said  he,  "  how  weak  I  am  ;  I  have  been 
subject  to  these  turns  of  late.  It  seems  to 
me  sometimes  that  brighter  glories  are  open- 
ing, and  I  hear  soft  angel  voices  speaking  to 
me  ;  but  I  am  very  weak.  You  greatly  en- 
courage me,  Sir,  by  thinking  I  ought  still  to 
continue  my  beloved  occupation.  I  should 
languish  without  it ;  and  yet  I  could  become 
a  hewer  of  wood  for  the  sake  of  my  wife  and 
children." 

"  Ah,  Sir,"  said  Julio,  sorrowfully,  "the in- 
adequate recompense  you  have  received  for 
your  noble  art,  will  be  a  subject  of  regret  for 
after  ages ;  but  you  will  no  longer  be  unre- 
warded. Part  of  my  errand  was  to  engage 
as  many  pictures  for  Signor  Luciano  Palla- 
vicino  as  you  arc  willing  to  promise :  his 
wealth  and  liberality  go  hand  in  liaiid,  and 
he  offers  such  prices  as  Michelangelo  and 
Raphael  command.     I  will  conduct  you   to 


170  COREGGIO. 

Rome  myself;    change  of  scene  and  climate 
will  restore  your  health." 

"  I  know  not  how  to  thank  you  as  I 
ought,"  replied  Antonio,  "for  all  this  kind- 
ness. I  will  leav^e  it  for  another  day.  I 
believe  I  must  retire  —  happiness  is  as  over- 
powering as  grief,  and  I  have  experienced  yj 
the  extremes  of  both  this  morning."  He  re- 
tired,  and  Maddelena  remained. 

The  soul  of  Julio  Romano  was  melted 
with  tenderness  towards  Antonio.  "  How 
long  has  he  been  indisposed?  "  inquired  he. 

"It  is  many  months,"  said  Maddelena ;  "  I 
fear  he  is  not  long  for  this  world ;"  added  she 
weeping,  "often  his  spirit  seems  to  take  its 
flight  upward ;  and  I  tremble  lest  it  should 
not  return  again.  He  is  unable  to  sustain 
the  injuries  which  noble  minds  are  often 
doomed  to  meet.  He  says  most  truly  he 
is  not  made  for  this  world :  he  had  been 
through  a  trying  scene,  before  you  came,  and 
I  know  not  which  overcame  him  most,  un- 
merited censure,  or  your  generous  praise." 

On  leaving  the  humble  dwelling,  the  Ro- 
man artist  immediately  wrote  to  Michel- 
angelo, who  had  desired  him  to  visit  Antonio 
at  Coreggio  ;  a  part  of  his  letter  is  preserved. 

"  I  have  seen  the  Allegri  as  you  desired ; 


COREGGIO.  171 

he  is  himself  as  charming  as  his  pictures. 
Shame  on  the  world !  he  is  in  poverty,  ab- 
ject poverty!  and,  though  ignorant  of  his 
wonderful  powers,  he  yet  feels  the  divinity 
stir  within  him.  He  has  a  young  wife, 
beautiful  like  the  Virgin  in  his  great  fresco  of 
the  Ascension.  But  I  forget  that  you  have 
not  seen  it.  He  certainly  does  not  possess 
the  science  of  the  mighty  Florentine  to 
whom  we  all  bow  ;  but  he  is  a  man  to  rank  by 
the  side  of  Raphael  my  beloved  and  immor- 
tal master  :  perhaps  he  may  not  possess  his 
exquisite  classic  grace,  which  I  strive  in  vain 
to  imitate  ;  but  there  is  in  his  pictures  such 
breathing  life,  such  an  angelic  spirituality, 
and  such  a  masterly  use  of  chiaro-scuro,  as 
you  cannot  find  in  any  but  the  first  masters. 
In  his  pictures,  as  in  his  mind,  there  seems  to 
be  no  boundary  between  heaven  and  earth  — 
they  are  both  one  —  his  angels  hover  like 
familiar  spirits  around  his  celestial  Madonnas, 
and  for  these  Madonnas  he  has  his  model 
upon  earth,  his  young  wife.  Heaven  looks 
out  from  her  downcast  eyes,  that  are  some- 
times raised  to  his  with  earnest  and  thought- 
ful tenderness.  He  undoubtedly  derives 
much  of  the  perfect  naturalness  of  his  Ma- 
donnas  from    this  earthly    model,    and    yet 


172  COREGGIO. 

it  is  evident  that,  though  of  earth,  she  is  not 
earthly." 

It  was  several  days  before  Antonio  recov- 
ered from  the  agitation  his  feeble  frame  had 
endured.  But  the  sweetest  serenity  took 
possession  of  his  soul ;  his  eyes  sparkled  with 
im wonted  lustre  ;  his  wife,  his  children  were 
constantly  around  him.  "  Did  I  not  say," 
said  Maddelena,  "  that  God  had  not  made  a 
painter,  if  thou  wert  not  one  ?  " 

"  I  rejoice  for  thy  sake,  dearest,"  replied 
Antonio,  "  that  I  listened  to  the  voice  of  my 
own  soul,  when  many  warned  me  against 
self-delusion.  Do  you  remember  the  paint- 
ing of  Raphael's  that  I  saw  for  a  moment  ? 
You  smiled,  yes,  as  you  do  now,  when  I 
exclaimed,  I  too  am  a  painter  !  "  * 

"  I  remember  it  well,"  said  Maddelena  ; 
"  it  was  before  my  father  had  given  his  con- 
sent to  our  union.  Thou  didst  not  then 
know  how  much  I  loved  thee  !  " 

"  Perhaps  it  had  been  well  for  thee  had  I 
never  known  it." 

"  And  who  told  thee  at  last?  Not  I,  To- 
nio,"  said  Maddelena  playfully  ;  '•  but  it  was 
easy  for  thee  to  discover  what  I  could  not 

*  Anch'  io  sono  pittore. 


COREGGIO.  173 

conceal  even  from  Pietro.  I  never  said  to 
thee,  Hove:  that  is  the  language  of  beginners. 
I  left  thee  to  spell  it  out ;  and  well  didst 
thou  con  thy  lesson." 

"  Too  well !  how  can  I  atone  for  the  pri- 
vations I  have  caused  thee  ?  Thy  father  is 
right." 

"  If  thou  wert  not  sick  and  weak  to-day, 
Antonio,"  said  Maddelena,  "  I  would  scold 
thee  well ;  but,"  added  she  more  seriously, 
"  even  if  it  were  true  that  I  had  wanted  any 
of  the  necessaries  of  life,  has  not  thy  affec- 
tion repaid  me  tenfold  ?  But  it  is  only  the 
luxuries  we  have  wanted.  Dost  thou  read 
famine  or  sorrow  in  the  faces  of  thy  children  ? 
Come  hither,  Nicolo  and  Julio." 

The  boys  left  their  play,  and  sprung  for- 
ward at  their  mother's  call,  their  innocent 
faces  beaming  with  health  and  gaiety.  "  Ah  ! 
husband,  pray  Heaven  that  we  may  be  as 
happy  in  our  affluence  as  we  have  been  in 
our  poverty.  Were  it  not  for  thy  toil,  1 
would  wish  no  change.  When  thou  art  the 
companion  of  Michelangelo,  Raphael,  and  the 
great  ones  of  the  earth,  thou  must  not  be 
ashamed  of  thy  Maddelena,  nor  of  her  poor 
father,  who  has  made  his  wealth  by  moulding 
jars  and  pipkins :  but  I  will  go  to  him  and 


174  COREGGIO. 

tell  him  of  this  visit,  what  the  great  Julio 
Romano  says  of  thee  :  he  loves  thee,  Tonio, 
though  he  has  no  conception  of  thy  divine 
art." 

On  the  wings  of  affection  the  young  wife 
again  sought  her  father's  dwelling.  Nicole 
truly  rejoiced  at  Antonio's  fair  prospects,  and 
promised  over  and  over  again  not  to  have 
any  intercourse  with  the  malicious  Pietro ; 
yet  at  night,  when  he  went  to  see  his  daugh- 
ter, he  could  not  resist  stopping  to  tell  him 
of  Antonio's  good  fortune  ! 

The  next  morning  the  artist  determined  to 
take  his  picture  to  Vecchina.  It  was  eight 
miles  to  Parma,  and  he  had  not  money  to 
hire  a  carriage.  A  mule  driver  offered  him, 
for  a  few  paoli,  a  mule  which  he  accepted,  but 
found  riding  more  fatiguing  than  walking. 
When  he  arrived,  Vecchina  was  absent.  He 
received,  however,  his  sixty  crowns  in  copper 
coin,  a  common  mode  of  payment  at  that 
period.  After  resting  a  short  time  he  deter- 
mined to  return  on  foot.  It  was  several 
hours  before  night  would  arrive,  and  he 
could  walk  slow,  and  rest  often  by  the  way. 
He  had  not  proceeded  many  miles  before  he 
fovmd  himself  exhausted  by  the  weight  of 
his  coin,  and  he  lay  down  in  the  beautiful 


COREGGIO.  175 

woods  between  Parma  and  Coreggio,  and 
slept.  When  he  awoke  it  was  evening  and 
the  moon  had  just  risen.  Again  he  arose, 
and  slowly  proceeded,  but  his  lungs  were 
oppressed,  and  he  struggled  heavily  for 
breath.  "  O  for  a  draught  of  water,"  he 
exclaimed,  "one  draught!"  What  music 
broke  upon  his  ear  ?  it  was  the  sound  of  a 
waterfall.  "  I  am  near  it,"  said  he,  "  and 
near  Coreggio ! "  With  new  courage  he 
reached  the  stream  and  placed  his  mouth  to 
it.  How  refreshing  to  the  weary  artist !  his 
tender  and  watchful  friend  was  not  there  to 
whisper  caution  ;  eagerly  he  swallowed  the 
draught,  alas  !  the  bubbling  life-blood  rose  to 
meet  it,  and  poured  from  his  mouth  ;  a  vessel 
had  broken  !  With  this,  however,  came 
relief;  he  breathed  more  freely.  "  I  shall  yet 
reach  home,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  shall  yet 
see  Maddelena  and  her  children,  and  deposit 
this  coin  with  them,  which  has  no  value  but 
lor  their  sakes."  When  he  attempted  to  rise 
ho  found  himself  yet  too  weak  ;  a  sleepiness 
came  over  him,  and  he  again  reclined  by  the 
side  of  the  fountain.  How  beautiful  was 
the  scene  !  the  moon  pouring  its  silver  light 
through  the  foliage  —  the  gentle  murmuring 
of    the   water-full  —  the    soft   whispering    of 


176  COREGGIO. 

the  trees  —  the  cool  damp  breeze  that  played 
on  the  hectic  cheek  of  the  artist  —  "fare- 
well !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  farewell  Maddelena,  I 
shall  meet  thee  again  in  the  land  of  spirits! " 
Was  it  a  dream  that  his  head  once  more  rest- 
ed on  her  lap  —  that  her  soft  cheek  was 
pressed  to  his,  that  he  again  heard  the  ac- 
cents of  her  voice  ?  and  that  sound  of 
"  Father,  dear  father,  we  have  fomid  you  !  " 
Could  it  indeed  be  Giovanni  that   spoke  ? 

Unable  to  bear  the  tedious  suspense  of  his 
delay,  she  had  wandered  forth  to  meet  him 
with  her  children.  She  had  found  him ! 
One  last,  one  long  embrace,  and  the  meeting 
was  over  ;  the  spirit  had  fled  to  its  kindred 
land.  Coreggio  died  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
nine,  in  the  year  1513. 


GIORGIONE  AND  TIZIANO. 


In  that  city  which  sits  enthroned  upon  the 
Adriatic,  and  which  is  so  justly  called  its 
queen,  with  her  spires  and  domes,  her  mar- 
ble palaces  and  gorgeous  buildings  rising 
from  the  water,  there  might  be  daily  seen 
among  innumerable  long  dark  gondolas,  glid- 
ing with  spirit-like  motion  through  her  hun- 
dred canals,  one  small  boat,  containing  two 
cavaliers.  It  was  in  the  year  1497.  Venice 
was  in  her  glory.  No  foreign  power  had 
desolated  her  churches,  her  commerce  was  as 
free  as  the  winds  and  waves  —  the  spoils  of 
Constantinople  and  of  many  victories,  adorn- 
ed her  halls  and  public  buildings  —  her  no- 
bles with  stately  step  traversed  her  squares, 
or  in  their  dark  gondolas  glided  with  haughty 
luxury  among  the  innumerable  isles.  In  the 
far  distance,  the  hoary  Alps  raised  their  snow- 
12 


178  GIOKGIONE    AND    TITIAN. 

crowned  heads,  and  looked  proudly  down  on 
the  peerless  sovereign  of  the  Adriatic,  while 
the  green  and  fertile  plains  of  Lombardo- 
Venetia  lay  stretched  between. 

Every  morning,  a  boat,  containing  the  two 
cavaliers  before  alluded  to,  shot  from  under 
the  noble  arch  of  the  Rialto,  and  glided  upon 
the  water  with  a  quiet  motion  soothing  to 
the  beholder. 

The  gondoliers  rested  on  their  oars,  to 
listen  to  the  music  that  proceeded  from  the 
boat.  One  of  the  young  men  drew  from  a 
flute  rich  full  tones  of  harmony,  while  the 
voice  of  the  other  prolonged  the  cadence  till 
sound  melted  into  air. 

Suddenly  he  seized  a  lute,  and  sung  the 
following  lay  impromptu,  and  now  and  then 
accompanying  his  voice  with  the  instru- 
ment :  —  * 

The  waves  in  murmurs  softly  flow, 
The  winds  from  heaven  genlly  blow : 
How  still  upon  the  ocean's  breast 
Yon  beauteous  island  seems  to  rest ! 
By  many  a  sparkling  gem  t'  is  bound, 
An  emerald  set  with  brilliants  romid ; 
Tranquil  and  calm  thou  seest  it  lie, 
"  A  cloud  upon  a  summer's  sky ; " 
And  yet  1  ween  the  swelling  tide 
"  Will  rudely  dash  against  its  side :  " 

*  These  lines  have  been  before  published. 


GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN.  179 

I  warn  thee  loiterer  beware ! 
Danger  and  death  are  lurking  there! 
Thou  will  not  heed  1    then  hear  my  lay, 
And  spread  thy  sail,  and  haste  away. 

The  morning  was  bright, 
And  flowers  were  blooming; 
The  grass  waved  high, 
The  air  perfuming. 

"  Awake,  my  love,"  the  bridegroom  cried, 
"  My  barque  is  dancing  on  the  tide ; 
A  sailor's  wife  must  love  the  sea  : 
Awake,  my  love,  and  come  with  me, 
And  thou  my  polar  star  stall  be." 

And  what  was  Genevieve's  emotion 
When  borne  upon  the  faithless  ocean'? 
I  cannot  tell.     Perhaps 't  was  fear 
That  wet  her  cheek  with  many  a  tear ; 
And  yet  meihinks  her  heart  was  gay, 
For  smiles  oft  chased  those  tears  away. 

"  And  sad,"  she  said,  "  I  will  not  be ; 
My  path  is  marked  upon  the  sea ; 
And  there  is  One,  whose  eye  will  keep 
The  vigils  when  thine  own  shall  sleep; 
He  locks  the  caverns  of  the  deep, 
And  holds  alike  the  sea  and  land 
Within  the  hollow  of  his  hand." 
How  sweet  to  land  upon  this  isle. 
And  rest  from  noon-day  beams  awhile  ! 
And  now  the  mariner  once  more 
Must  spread  his  sail  for  yonder  shore  ; 
But  Genevieve  in  sportive  play 
Declared  her  purpose  was  to  stay. 
"  I  cannot  go,"  she  said, "  with  thee ; 
Clueen  of  this  island  I  will  be. 
Go,  if  thou  wilt,  to  yonder  shore, 


180  GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN. 

And  when  thy  duty  there  is  o'er, 
Perhaps  when  thou  com'  st  back  again, 
I  '11  make  thee  my  high  chamberlain." 

Again  he  spread  the  snowy  sail ; 
It  fluttered  in  the  rising  gale ; 
The  mountain  waters  rudely  cast 
The  foaming  spray  upon  the  blast ; 
His  little  bark  was  widely  driven 
Before  the  scattering  winds  of  heaven. 
One  blessed  thought  could  still  relieve  — 
"  My  wife  is  safe,  my  Genevieve !  " 
That  mighty  voice  which  can  at  will 
Command  the  tempest  to  be  still. 
Hushed  the  rude  sea,  the  rainbow  spread, 
Like  a  bright  halo,  o'er  his  head ; 
Again  he  plied  the  lab'ring  oar 
To  reach  the  emerald  isle  once  more. 

The  minstrel  ceased,  and  dropped  his  head. 
"  Though  fifty  years  have  passed,"  he  said, 
"  These  scalding  tears  will  still  be  shed  ; 
The  waters  o'er  the  isle  had  swept  1 
And  in  its  hollows  yet  they  slept. 
My  time  is  short,  I  will  not  grieve  — 
I  soon  shall  join  my  Genevieve  !  " 

"  Who  are  those  cavahcrs  ? "  said  the 
Count  Grimani,  when  the  song  had  ceased, 
and  his  gondola  had  passed  them.  "  I  have 
seen  them  every  day,  for  many  weeks ;  some- 
times their  boat  is  moored,  and  twice  I  have 
met  them,  arm  in  arm,  on  the  Rial  to." 

"  I  know  them,  my  lord,"  said  one  of  the 


GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN.  181 

Pregadi,  who  happened  to  be  of  the  par- 
ty.* They  are  pupils  of  Giovanni  Belhni. 
The  taller  of  the  two,  he  with  the  dark 
eye  and  noble  bearing,  is  Giorgione,  of  Cas- 
tel-Franco  ;  the  other  is  Tiziano  Vecelli. 
Though  widely  separated  by  birth  —  for  one 
is  of  noble  and  the  other  of  plebeian  extrac- 
tion—  they  are  sworn  friends." 

"  It  is  easy,"  said  the  Count,  "  to  distin- 
guish between  the  two." 

The  Senator  smiled  ;  he  had  himself  been 
selected  from  among  the  citizens  for  his 
republican  virtue,  not  for  his  birth. 

"  Which  of  the  two,  my  lord,"  said  he, 
"  bears  the  stamp  of  nobility  ?  " 

"  The  Improvisatore  whom  you  call  Gior- 
gione," replied  the  Count.  "  There  is  no 
base  blood  in  that  lofty  mein ;  observe  the 
contour  of  his  head,  the  glance  of  his  eye  ; 
there  is  nobility  in  one,  and  bravery  in  the 
other." 

"  Have  you  never  found,  my  lord,"  said 
the  Senator,  "that  nature  has  her  caprices, 
and  sometimes  chooses  to  bestow  her  gifts 
where  birth  and  rank  have  no  claims  ?  " 

*  In  the  early  times  of  Venice,  the  Doge  sent  raessagei!  to 
such  citizens  as  he  chose,  praying  them  to  come  and  give 
their  advice.     These  were  called  Pregadi. 


182  GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN. 

"  Never,"  said  the  Count.  "  I  am  not  a 
young  man  or  a  transient  observer,  and 
through  my  whole  hfe  I  have  never  seen 
one  of  ignoble  extraction  endowed  with  the 
external  signs  of  high  birth," 

"  II  Signor  Giorgione,  however,  is  an  ex- 
ception to  this  rule,"  replied  the  Senator, 
with  evident  satisfaction  ;  "  it  is  he  who  is  of 
Ignoble  birth,  and  Signor  Tiziano  Vecelli 
belongs  to  a  noble  family  !  " 

The  Count  Grimani  bit  his  lip,  and  turned 
hastily  away. 

The  Senator  continued ;  "  Tiziano  was 
born  at  Cadore  in  Friuli,  about  five  miles  from 
the  chain  of  Alps  ;  I  think  in  the  year  1477, 
which  makes  him  just  upon  his  fourth  lustre. 
He  belongs  to  the  ancient  family  of  Vecelli, 
and  I  assure  you,  my  lord,  gives  evidence 
that  he  is  not  unworthy  of  his  origin.  The 
taste  for  music  that  he  early  discovered,  and 
the  fine  voice,  of  which  you  have  just  heard 
specimens,  induced  his  father  to  send  him  to 
Venice,  to  the  care  of  an  uncle,  that  he 
might  be  instructed  scientifically  in  music. 
Richly,  however,  as  natiue  had  endowed  him 
in  this  respect,  he  soon  discovered  a  taste  and 
fondness  for  painting,  that  made  him  resolve 
to  devote  himself  to  it.     His  micle,  by  the 


GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN.  183 

consent  of  his  father,  placed  him  with  Bel- 
hni,  and  there  he  formed  his  friendship  with 
Giorgione,  which  grew  into  intimacy,  and 
they  are  now  never  to  be  seen  apart." 

"  It  would  seem,"    said  the  Count,    "  that 
you  are  well  acquainted  with  these  young 


men." 


"Yes,  my  lord,"  rephed  the  Senator, 
"  Tiziano  is  the  son  of  my  sister,  and  I  am 
the  uncle  to  whom  he  was  entrusted." 

"  Had  I  borne  that  relation  to  him,"  said 
the  Count,  proudly,  "  I  would  have  nipped 
this  youthful  friendship  in  the  bud.  There 
is  nothing  more  imprudent  than  forming 
connexions  early  in  life  which  it  becomes 
necessary  to  dissolve  as  we  advance.  Fortu- 
nately for  myself,  I  have  suffered  but  little 
on  this  account.  While  an  infant  I  was 
betrothed  to  a  noble  scion  of  our  own  stock. 
Educated  by  a  learned  monk  in  the  Castello 
of  my  father,  I  have  never  associated  except 
with  our  own  race.  By  this  means  I  have 
escaped  the  contagion  that  lingers  still  in  our 
Venice,  so  falsely  called  a  Republic.''^ 

"  Your  sentiments,  my  lord,  illustrate  your 
education,"  said  the  Senator  suppressing  a 
smile. 

The  Comit  condescended   to  make  a  gra- 


184  GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN. 

cious  bow  in  answer  to  this  observation,  and 
then  added,  "  If  you  wish  to  introduce  this 
young  man  to  me,  as  a  patron  and  encour- 
ager  of  the  fine  arts,  I  shall  •  be  happy  to  see 
him  at  my  levee,  and  will  receive  him  with 
the  courtesy  due  to  a  nephew  of  one  of  the 
Pregadi." 

Signor  Altoni  hesitated  for  a  moment 
whether  to  accept  this  haughty  permission  ; 
but,  reflecting  that  the  favor  of  rank  and 
wealth  might  hereafter  be  of  essential  service 
to  his  nephew,  he  determined  to  do  so. 

"You  say,"  said  the  Count,  "that  your 
nephew  is  a  pupil  of  Bellini's  ;  which  of  the 
Bellinis  ?  may  I  ask.  I  understand  there 
are  two." 

"  There  are,"  replied  Altoni ;  "  Gentil  and 
Giovanni,  both  sons  of  Giacomo ;  and,  if 
I  have  any  skill  in  painting,  they  will  be 
the  founders  of  a  Venetian  school.*  My 
nephew  is  the  pupil  of  Giovanni.  Gentil, 
who  jiainted  the  hall  of  the  Great  Council, 
has  just  returned  from  Constantinople,  where 
he  was  invited  by  Mahomet,  second  Emperor 
of  the  Turks.  He  painted  several  things 
much  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  Turk ;  but 
at  length  the  old  fellow  undertook  to  turn 

"  This,  it  is  well  known,  they  were. 


GIORGIONE     AND    TITIAN.  185 

critic,  and  found  fault  with  the  decollation  of 
St,  John  the  Baptist,  insisting  that  the  skin 
of  the  neck,  where  it  had  been  separated 
from  the  head,  was  too  high,  Bellini  main- 
tained the  correctness  of  his  picture  stoutly, 
and  the  Emperor,  to  convince  him  that  the 
criticism  was  just,  ordered  a  slave  to  be 
brought,  and  his  head  to  be  struck  off  in  Gen- 
til's  presence,  that  he  might  see  what  was  the 
natural  effect  after  the  separation.  The  poor 
painter  was  convinced  at  once,  and  gave  up 
his  argument ;  but,  unable  to  bear  the  sight  of 
the  critic  after  this  circumstance  took  place, 
he  asked  leave  to  quit  Constantinople." 

"  He  was  fortunate  in  being  permitted  to 
return,"  exclaimed  the  Duke. 

"  He  was  not  only  permitted,  but  the 
Grand  Signior  put  a  gold  chain  upon  his 
neck,  and  loaded  him  with  costly  presents. 
He  also  wrote  a  letter  by  him  to  the  Senate, 
recommending  him  to  their  favor,  and  they 
have  conferred  upon  him,  in  compliment  to 
the  kind-hearted  Emperor,  the  order  of  St. 
Mark,  with  a  pension  for  life.  He  is  now 
painting  several  views  of  the  city,  particu- 
larly of  the  square  of  St.  Mark  ;  and  the  beau- 
tiful Madonna,  with  two  cherubs  hovering 
over  her,*  is  his  work." 

*  To  be  seen  in  the  Academy  at  Venice. 


186  GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN. 

"  I  have  not  been  fond  of  mingling  with 
the  lower  order,"  said  the  noble  Venetian ; 
"but  as  I  wish  to  procure  gems  of  art,  I 
shall  be  obliged  to  you,  to  introduce  to  me 
some  of  the  best  workmen  in  this  kind  of 
business." 

"  With  pleasure,  my  lord,"  replied  Signor 
Altoni,  as  the  gondola  approached  the  mar- 
ble steps  that  led  to  the  palace  Grimani. 
There  they  quitted  the  boat,  and  the  Count 
with  stately  motion  ascended  to  the  colon- 
nade and  entered  the  lofty  halls  of  his  ances- 
tors, while  the  Senator  returned  home. 

"  My  dear  Tiziano,"  said  he  to  his  nephew, 
"  I  have  an  invitation  for  you  to  the  Grimani 
palace  tomorrow  eve." 

"  I  have  an  engagement  with  Girgione," 
replied  Titian. 

"  Nay,  but  you  must  give  the  precedence 
to  mine.  Grimani  is  one  of  the  richest 
nobles  of  Venice,  and  Venice  is  no  longer 
what  she  was  in  the  uncorrupted  days  of  the 
republic.  The  aristocracy  now  has  come  to 
rule,  and  talents  must  curry  favor.  Alas,  for 
our  beloved  city !  she  is  still  glorious,  and  her 
possessions  extensive ;  she  has  wise  and  en- 
lightened magistrates  ;  but  they  who  know 
how  to  read  the  history  of  nations,  look  for- 


GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN.  187 

ward  to  the  period  when  the  Clneen  of  the 
Adriatic  will  be  shorn  of  her  honors,  her 
crown  sink  into  the  sea,  her  palaces  crumble 
to  ruins,  and  these  balconies,  now  crowded  by 
forms  of  youth  and  beauty,  become  silent 
and  desolate,  the  long  moss  and  waving 
grass  hanging  from  the  disjointed  stones  and 
Ionic  columns."  * 

"My  dear  uncle,"  replied  Titian,  "me- 
thinks  your  imagination  has  snatched  the 
reins  from  your  judgment.  So  far  as  my 
knowledge  of  history  extends,  there  never 
was  a  period  when  Venice  more  proudly 
wielded  her  sceptre.  Petrarch,  one  of  the 
greatest  poets  of  Italy,  has  here  deposited  his 
works.  Cardinal  Bessarione  has  given  to  the 
library  of  St.  Mark  his  inestimable  treasures 
of  Ancient  Learning.  By  such  gifts,  distin- 
guished and  wise  men  prove  how  much  they 
rely  upon  the  stability  of  oiu:  government,  as 
well  as  upon  the  taste  for  literature  among 
the  nobility.  No  where  is  such  encourage- 
ment given  to  the  fine  arts. '  Some  of  the 
most  important  territories  of  Italy  have 
yielded  their  supremacy  to  Venice  ;  even  the 
wife  of  the  last  King  of  Cyprus,  (^\itherine 
Cornaro,  has  ceded  that  beautiful  country  to 

*  Such  is  Venice  now. 


188  GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN. 

her  native  republic.  Venice  is  rich,  power- 
ful, and  honored,  with  a  people  devoted  to 
art  and  science,  sending  forth  counsellors  of 
law  to  other  nations,  and  solicited  to  furnish 
professors  and  teachers  for  their  universities. 
Have  you  heard  of  the  offer  they  have  made 
to  Giason  Maino  at  Padua  ?  an  annuity  of  a 
thousand  ducats  of  gold,  if  he  will  become  a 
teacher  there  of  the  Roman  law." 

"  All  this  is  true,"  replied  Altoni,  "  and 
more  you  might  say.  You  might  speak  of 
the  inflexibility  with  which  justice  has  been 
administered,  of  the  dark  vacancy  among  the 
portraits  of  the  Doges,  with  its  inscription,  * 
of  the  fortitude  of  the  unfortunate  Foscari, 
and  his  still  more  unfortunate  father.f  But 
none  the  less  does  it  remain  true,  that  Venice 
is  no  longer  a  republic,  except  in  the  name." 
He  arose,  and  carefully  closed  the  doors  and 
windows  ;  then,  lowering  his  voice,  added, 
"  There  is  one  thing  that  paralyzes  and  en- 
slaves the  people,  that  is  fast  undermining  the 
foundation  of  liberty  and  justice  ;  "  his  voice 
sunk  to  the  lowest  whisper  ;  "  the  Inquisi- 
tion, Tiziano  !  May  God  defend  us  from  it." 

*  "  Locus  Marini  Falieri  decapitati." 

t  The  Doge  of  Venice,  who  exhorted  his  innocent  son  to 
submit  yiaticntly  to  the  dungeon  and  the  rack,  because  such 
were  the  laws  of  the  country. 


GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN.  189 

Titian  started  at  the  fearful  word.  "  We 
are  growing  too  serious,"  replied  he,  ''but  I 
will  hold  myself  to  your  engagement ;  "  and 
they  parted. 

Titian  repaired  to  the  apartment  of  Gior- 
gione ;  he  found  him  engaged  in  painting 
a  picture  of  David,  with  a  boy  standing 
by,  holding  up  the  severed  head  of  Goliah. 
Around  the  room  were  scattered  musical  in- 
struments, songs,  and  flowers  ;  his  time  was 
divided  between  his  profession  and  the  taste- 
ful and  elegant  pursuits  of  the  day.  His 
personal  beauty,  his  performance  on  the  lute, 
with  his  fame  as  a  painter,  had  already  drawn 
upon  him  the  eyes  of  many  a  Venetian  dame, 
sparkling  from  under  the  graceful  zendaletto 
which  partially  covered  her  face. 

"  I  have  come,"  said  Titian,  "  to  release 
myself  from  the  engagement  I  made  this 
morning  :  my  uncle  claims  my  attendance  at 
the  Grimani  palace." 

A  shade  of  vexation  passed  over  the  coun- 
tenance of  Giorgione.  "  You  forget,"  said  he, 
"  that  you  have  pledged  yourself  to  the  fete 
of  Signora  Mozza.  Her  beautiful  daughter 
depends  on  you  for  a  second,  and  the  duetto 
must  remain  unperformed  if  you  arc  not 
there." 


190  GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN. 

"  It  is  vexatious  enough,"  replied  Titian, 
"  but  I  am  under  too  many  obligations  to  my 
uncle  not  to  consider  his  wish  a  law.  But 
what  are  you  doing  there,  Giorgione  ?  "  con- 
tinued he,  approaching  a  painting  that  stood 
on  an  easel  in  the  corner  of  the  room. 

''  I  scarcely  need  say  to  you,"  replied 
Giorgione,  "  that  I  have  been  dissatisfied  with 
the  dry,  harsh  manner  of  master  Bellini ;  and 
since  we  saw  that  picture  of  Lionardo  da 
Vinci's,  I  have  been  attempting  to  imitate  his 
manner."  * 

''  It  is  beautiful,"  exclaimed  Titian ;  "  there 
is  all  the  softness  of  the  mighty  artist.  I 
have  long  felt  how  much  was  wanting  in  my 
own  style.  I  hear  Lionardo  is  the  idol  of 
Florence." 

The  friends  parted  —  in  Giorgione 's  man- 
ner, there  was  less  of  cordiality  than  usual  — 
the  fair  Guilietta  di  Mozza  had  long  been  the 
mistress  of  his  heart.  It  was  by  his  persua- 
sion, she  had  been  induced  to  overcome 
so  far  her  native  timidity,  as  to  take  pajrt  in  a 

*  Aveva  veduto  Giorgione  alcune  cose  di  mani  di  Lio- 
nardo, molto  fumeggiate  e  cacciale,  come  si  e  detto,  ter- 
ribilmente  di  scuro.  E  questa  maniera  gli  plaque  tanto, 
che  mentre  visse  sempre  ando  dietro  a  quella,  e  nel  colo- 
rito  a  olio  la  imilo  grandemente. 


GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN.  191 

piece  with  Titian,  and  he  had  fondly  antici- 
pated the  melting  strains  which  his  own  lute 
was  to  prelude.  Titian,  his  most  intimate 
friend,  his  confidant,  knew  all  this,  yet  with 
perfect  coolness  he  had  broken  his  engage- 
ment, and,  as  far  as  the  duetto  was  concerned, 
had  condemned  that  voice  of  harmony  to 
silence  for  the  evening. 

Yet,  how  could  Titian,  who  had  never 
been  initiated  in  the  mysteries  of  a  first  love, 
understand  the  feelings  of  his  friend  ?  he  was 
even  tempted  to  smile  at  what  he  considered 
the  excessive  disappointment  of  Giorgione. 
From  this  slight  cause  began  the  diminution 
of  the  friendship  that  had  hitherto  made  so 
much  of  their  happiness  ;  other  circumstances 
however  were  combined.  Titian  improved 
upon  the  hints  of  Giorgione,  and,  aided  by  his 
fine  natural  perception  of  coloring,  produced 
works  of  such  brilliancy  and  softness  that  his 
fame  eclipsed  that  of  Giorgione.  His  uncle's 
worldly  foresight,  too,  had  proved  true.  His 
introduction  to  the  Grimani  palace  had 
drawn  upon  him  the  observation  of  the  no- 
bles ;  even  the  haughty  Count  condescended 
to  sit  for  his  picture  ;  and  it  was  wliispered 
that  one  being,  less  haughty  and  more  lovely 
in  the  aristocratic  group,  had  looked  with 
complacency  upon  the  young  artist. 


192  GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN. 

From  this  period,  the  society  in  which  he 
continued  to  visit,  was  separate  from  that  of 
Giorgione  ;  they  now  seldom  met,  except  in 
the  way  of  business.  Both  were  engrossed 
in  their  pursuits.  Giorgione,  notwithstanding 
his  passionate  love  of  music,  contrived  to  im- 
prove in  the  new  manner  he  had  adopted. 
There  was  a  grandeur  in  his  conceptions  that 
Titian  never  reached  ;  it  was  neither  in  the 
eye  nor  the  hand,  but  the  soul.  It  was  he 
who  first  soared  from  the  low  manner  of 
Bellini's  coloring,  to  a  full  understanding  and 
command  of  the  beauties  of  the  chieiroscuro. 
Titian  followed. 

At  this  period,  the  two  artists  might  be 
said  to  divide  the  opinions  of  the  Venetians. 
At  length  they  were  applied  to,  to  paint  the 
building  where  the  merchants  met,  on  the 
grand  canal.  Giorgione  took  one  side,  and 
Titian  another.  The  pieces  were  done  in 
competition.  Both  are  now  ruined  by  time, 
and  at  that  period  did  not  settle  the  question. 

Titian  at  length  visited  Rome,  where  he 
first  beheld  the  works  of  Michelangelo  and 
Raphael.  Here  he  took  lessons  in  design, 
and  afterwards  went  to  Vicenza,  and  execut- 
ed a  fresco  upon  a  portico,  representing  the 
judgment    of     Solomon,    and    was     highly 


GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN.  193 

praised.     He  also  visited  Padua,  and  painted 
a  St.  Mark  in  oil. 

Giorgione  in  the  mean  time  continued  to 
labor,  unassisted  by  models  or  instruction,  and 
resting  on  his  own  grandeur  of  conception. 
He  painted  several  fine  Madonnas,  and  some 
portraits.  His  fame  spread  over  Italy,  and 
his  works  were  in  great  demand  in  various 
cities. 

In  1504  an  alarming  fire  broke  out  in 
Venice  near  the  Rial  to ;  it  could  not  be  ex- 
tinguished till  a  great  part  of  the  German 
warehouse  with  its  merchandize  was  con- 
sumed. The  government  ordered  it  to  be 
rebuilt  with  superior  magnificence.  Gior- 
gione was  appointed  to  superintend  the  em- 
bellishments, and  discovered  his  fine  taste  in 
the  ornaments  and  fresco  paintings. 

Genius  and  industry  secured  to  him  the 
distinction  which  birth  had  denied  him. 
His  portraits  were  his  most  admired  works, 
and  those  which  remain  to  us  are  character- 
ized by  a  mellow  richness  of  coloring,  a 
breadth  of  effect  and  projection  of  figures 
which  perhaps  have  never  been  equalled  un- 
less by  his  great  rival  and  fellow-student, 
Titian.  In  his  portraits  of  military  men, 
there  is  a  grandeiu:  and  heroism  of  mien, 
13 


194  GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN. 

which  has  been  much  admired  and  imitated, 
and  has  given  rise  to  what  is  called  the 
Giorgione  style. 

Catharine  Carnaro  the  ex-Q,ueen  of  Cy- 
prus *  had,  since  her  abdication,  resided  al- 
most wholly  in  solitude,  though  treated  with 
every  mark  of  respect  by  the  Venetians. 
Her  taste  for  painting  had  made  her  acquaint- 
ed with  the  works  of  Giorgione.  She  con- 
sented to  sit  for  her  picture,  and  selected  him 
for  the  artist. 


*  The  island  of  Cyprus  had  been  given  to  Lusignan  by 
the  crusaders,  who  won  il  from  the  Barbarians;  but  he,  fore- 
seeing, as  his  death  approached,  that  it  would  be  subject  to 
the  constant  annoyance  of  the  Turks,  with  admirable  good 
sense  requested  Catharine  to  yield  the  crown,  and  renounce 
the  honors  of  royalty,  and  place  herself  under  the  protec- 
tion of  her  native  republic,  Venice ;  assuring  her  that 
a  sceptre  was  well  exchanged  for  peace  and  friendship. 
One  of  the  most  beautiful  of  Titian's  pictures  is  that  of 
Catharine  Cornaro;  it  is  still  preserved  in  its  original 
freshness. 

Addison,  in  an  admirable  paper  on  temperance,  mentions 
LewisCornaro,  the  Venetian,  as  a  most  remarkable  instance 
of  its  benefits;  he  was  of  the  same  family  as  Lusignan,  and 
of  an  infirm  constitution,  but,  persisting  in  an  exact  course 
of  temperance,  recovered  a  perfect  state  of  health,  insomuch 
that  at  fourscore  he  published  a  book  under  the  title  of 
"Sure  and  certain  methods  of  attaining  a  long  and  healthy 
life."  After  having  passed  his  liundredth  year,  he  died 
without  pain  or  agony,  and  like  one  who  falls  asleep. 

Spectator,  No.  195. 


GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN.  195 

He  became  the  favorite  portrait  painter 
of  the  nobihty.  Even  the  Count  Grimani 
waived  his  low  birth,  and  admitted  him,  as 
he  had  before  done  Titian,  to  the  Grimani 
palace. 

Giorgione  was  no  longer  poor  and  un- 
known ;  he  had  his  coversaziones  and  musical 
parties,  and  he  was  the  delight  of  his  friends  ; 
his  house  became  the  resort  of  gay  cavaliers, 
and  distinguished  foreigners ;  among  them 
were  often  Ariosto  and  Aretina,  the  well- 
known  poets  of  Italy. 

In  the  year  1511  Titian  returned  to 
Venice.  He  had,  while  absent,  thought  much 
of  the  advantage  he  had  derived  from  Gior- 
gione's  skill  in  painting  —  of  their  early 
friendship,  and  the  love  that  had  once  existed 
between  them ;  his  heart  yearned  for  a 
reconciliation ;  he  felt  that  there  had  been 
mutual  faults,  that  jealousy  and  rivalship  had 
too  long  separated  them,  and  he  determined 
to  seek  his  friend,  and  acknowledge  wherein 
he  had  been  to  blame.  He  knew  too  well 
the  noble  nature  of  Giorgione  to  fear  a  re- 
pulse. 

He  an-ived  at  Venice  the  day  before  As- 
cension, a  day  celebrated  by  the  Republic 
since  the  year  997,  when  the  victory  was 


196  GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN. 

gained  over  Narenta,  a  piratical  city  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Adriatic.  The  early  com- 
memoration was  in  a  rude,  simple  manner ; 
but,  nearly  two  hundred  years  after,  the  em- 
peror Barbarossa  conferred  on  the  Venetians 
the  supremacy  of  the  Adriatic.  The  investi- 
ture was  made  with  much  formality,  on  As- 
cension Day,  and  added  to  the  pomp  of  the 
occasion.  Barbarossa,  repudiating  his  be- 
loved Adriatic,  made  her  over  to  the  Doge, 
who  espoused  his  "green-haired  bride  "  with 
much  solemnity.  A  boat  was  constructed  to 
take  the  Doge  to  the  bridal  ceremony,  in  the 
beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century  :  every 
anniversary  had  been  adding  to  the  splendor 
of  the  festival ;  and,  at  the  present  time,  1511, 
nothing  could  exceed  the  show  and  decora- 
tion which  was  in  preparation. 

Titian  felt  impatient  for  the  reconcilia- 
tion he  had  projected  between  himself  and 
Giorgionc ;  but,  sure  of  meeting  him  on  the 
great  day,  he  did  not  repair  to  his  house  im- 
mediately on  his  arrival.  The  morning  of 
Ascension  Day  arose  mild  and  clear,  —  all 
Venice  was  in  motion. 

The  day  was  ushered  in  by  music  and 
ringing  of  bells,  and  the  Buccntoro  taken 
from  under  cover.     The  sun  shone  on  her 


GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN.  197 

gorgeous  ornaments,  her  three  decks,  each 
one  hundred  feet  long,  all  appropriately  orna- 
mented ;  the  lower  deck  was  occupied  by 
nearly  one  hundred  rowers,  and  surrounded 
by  towing-barges ;  the  second  splendidly 
fitted  up  with  crimson  velvet,  cloth  of  gold, 
allegorical  statues,  gilt  bassi-relievi  and  tro- 
phies, heathen  gods  and  goddesses,  with 
canonized  saints  and  madonnas.  On  one 
side  might  be  seen  Venus  rising  from  the 
ocean ;  on  the  other,  the  Virgin  Mother ;  then 
representations  of  the  victories  of  the  repub- 
lic, and  Jupiter  yielding  his  sceptre,  and 
Mars  his  trident,  to  the  lovely  queen  of  the 
Adriatic. 

All  that  was  noble  in  Venice,  all  that  was 
high  in  rank,  beauty,  wealth,  and  talent, 
were  convened  on  this  occasion.  At  the 
upper  end  of  the  Bucentoro*  was  placed  a 
throne,  under  a  canopy  of  crimson  and  gold. 
The  bridegroom  of  the  Adriatic,  clad  in  his 
ermine  robes  sweeping  the  ground,  with  his 
white  and  gold  cap  on  his  head,  accompanied 
by  the  senators  and  clergy,  was  conducted  to 
the  throne.  The  Bucentoro  was  then  rowed 
a  little  way  into  the  sea,  attended  by  the 

*  Said  to  be  a  corruption  of  the  original  name,  Diicento- 


rum. 


198  GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN. 

splendid  yachts  of  the  foreign  ambassadors, 
the  gondolas  of  the  Venetian  nobility,  and 
the  water  covered  with  innumerable  gallies 
of  every  kind.  When  all  was  ready,  the 
venerable  patriarch,  the  Pope's  legate,  or  rep- 
resentative, poured  a  libation  of  holy  water 
into  the  ocean,  for  the  preservation  of  the  fine 
weather,  and  to  dispel  any  storm  that  might 
be  gathering.  Hymns  were  sung,  and  a  band 
of  music  played,  while  the  pageant  slowly 
moved  towards  the  island  of  St.  Lido,  about 
two  miles  from  Venice.  Prayers  were  then 
said,  and  the  Doge,  with  solemn  dignity,  ap- 
proached nearer  to  his  bride,  and  dropped  a 
wedding-ring  on  the  consecrated  wave,  ut- 
tering these  words  in  an  emphatic  tone  :  — 

"  Desponsamus  te,  Mare,  in  signum  veri 
perpetuique  dominii."  * 

The  sea  uttered  a  low  murmur,  much 
more  captivating  to  the  bridegroom  and  his 
attendants,  than  Avould  have  been  a  more 
boisterous  assent. 

Titian  had  been  wholly  engrossed  by  the 
ceremony  ;  for,  though  one  annually  witness- 
ed, it  always  preserved  its  interest  and  solem- 
nity among  the  Venetians.     Now,  however, 

*  We  espouse  thee,  0  Sea,  in  sign  of  true  and  perpetual 
dominion  over  thee. 


GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN. 


199 


he  began  to  seek  for  Giorgione  among  the 
numerous  pageants  of  the  show. 

''  Surely,  he  must  be  there  ;  for,  when  was 
he  absent  from  the  national  festival,  the 
dance,  and  the  song  ? "  said  Titian  to  him- 
self. When  lo!  he  beheld  a  yacht,  gaily 
dressed,  and  wreathed  with  flowers,  while 
the  burnished  gold  at  the  head  and  prow 
gave  it  the  appearance  of  a  ball  of  fire.  A 
strain  of  slow  and  solemn  music  was  heard 
from  the  boat,  strangely  contrasting  with  its 
gala  dress. 

As  he  approached  nearer,  he  perceived  a 
banner  waving  in  the  air,  and  distinguished 
the  initials  of  Giorgione 's  name.  "Ha!" 
thought  he,  "this  is  some  new  whim — he 
will  never  be  contented  till  he  has  divine 
honors   paid   him." 

Titian  ordered  the  gondoliers  to  row 
along  side  of  the  yacht,  and  plainly  dis- 
tinguished the  following  irregular  dirge,  ac- 
companied  by  musical    instruments :  — 

The  song  of  the  bridal  is  swelling, 
But  the  fete  of  the  bridegroom  is  o'er. 

Hark  !  the  death-bell  its  note  is  knelling, 
Sadly  it  comes  from  the  distant  shore. 

We  go  from  the  bridal  with  flower  and  tear, 

To  weep  by  the  side  of  the  pale  one's  bier. 


200  GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN. 

Strike,  strike  the  lute,  all  faint  and  low, 

For  it  knows  its  master's  will ; 
The  flute  in  whispering  accents  blow, 

For  the  master's  breath  is  still. 

The  sad  notes  of  sorrow  are  blending 
With  the  gay  festive  song  of  the  sea; 

And  slow  o'er  the  wave  we  are  wending ; 
'Tis  to  pay  our  last  tribute  to  thee. 

Titian  waited  till  the  music  ceased  and 
silence  succeeded.  He  then  asked  if  Gior- 
gione  was  on  board  the  yacht.  The  gondo- 
liers shook  their  heads.  At  that  moment  a 
tall  pale  youth  came  forward  ;  at  one  glance 
Titian  knew  him,  it  was  Ludovico  Ariosto. 
He  who  had  sung  "  Le  donne,  i  cavalier, 
I'arme,  gli  amori."  In  an  instant  he  sprang 
from  the  gondola,  and  the  friends  were  in 
each  other's  arms. 

"  When  did  you  arrive  in  Venice  ?  "  was 
the  first  question  of  Titian. 

"  I  came  from  Ferrara  a  few  days  since," 
replied  Ariosto,  "  and  inquired  for  you,  but 
heard  you  were  absent." 

"  Still  I  find  you  in  the  land  of  song,"  said 
Titian  gaily  ;  "  but  whose  obsequies  are  you 
celebrating  thus  festively  ?  " 

Ariosto  looked  earnestly  at  him,  and  then 
exclaimed,  "  Shall  wealth  and  pride  have  its 


GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN. 


201 


honors,  and  genius  receive  none  ?  Every 
noble,  and  every  patrician  in  Venice  has  at 
least  given  one  thought  to  day  to  Giorgione. 
To  night  we  perform  his  funeral  obsequies, 
and  cast  aside  this  glare  and  pomp,  contrived 
to  arrest  the  vulgar.  Go  with  us,  Titian  ;  I 
know  you  and  Giorgione  were  friends  at 
heart,  and  there  is  no  rivalship  in  the  grave." 

Rivalship!  what  would  not  Titian  have 
given  to  have  had  one  interview  with  his 
early  friend,  to  have  exchanged  forgive- 
ness !  But  it  was  too  late,  and  he  could 
only  render  unavailing  sighs  and  tears  to  his 
memory. 

It  was  weeks  after  this  event  took  place 
before  Titian  recovered  his  usual  tone  of 
spirits,  and  Ariosto  persuaded  him  to  pass 
some  time  with  him  at  his  house  in  Ferrara. 
Here  he  was  much  noticed  by  the  Duke  of 
Ferrara,  and  invited  to  stay  at  his  palace  ; 
but  he  preferred  remaining  with  Ariosto,  who 
lived  in  a  simple  manner  in  a  small  house  of 
his  own  building.  The  Duke  had  made 
him  splendid  offers,  as  also  had  Leo  X ; 
but  the  poet  loved  ease  better  than  rank,  and 
said  he  would  "not  sell  his  liberty  for  a 
cardinal's  hat." 

Titian    expressed   to   him   some    surprise 


202  GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN. 

that  he  had  not  built  a  more  splendid  dwell- 
ing, "  You,"  said  he,  "  who  have  given 
such  descriptions  in  your  Orlando,  of  palaces 
and  castles,  of  noble  colonnades  and  marble 
fountains,  must  surely  have  some  taste  for 
them." 

"  Yes,"  replied  he,  "  I  love  to  describe 
them  ;  but  words  are  more  easily  put  together 
than  blocks  of  marble." 

"  What  think  you  of  the  inscription  over 
my  door  ?  "  continued  he. 

Titian  had  not  observed  it  —  it  was  in 
Latin  and  may  be  thus  translated  :  — 

"  My  house  is  small,  but  suits  myself; 
Is  neat,  and  paid  for  with  my  pelf." 

While  staying  with  Ariosto,  Titian  paint- 
ed a  fine  picture  of  him.* 

In  the  Orlando  Furioso,  Titian  is  cele- 
brated as  conferring  not  less  honor  on  Cadore, 
his  native  place,  than  Raphael  and  Giorgione 
on  Venice  and  Urbino.f 

When  Titian  returned  to  Venice,  he  was 
requested  to  complete  a  picture  that  Giorgi- 
one had  left  unfinished.     This  was  a  renewal 

*  This  is  in  the  Hall  of  St.  Mark. 

t    E  Tiziano,  che  onora 

Non  men  Cador,  che  quel  Venezia  e  Urbino. 


GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN. 


203 


of  those  tender  and  remorseful  feelings,  which 
had  before  agitated  him. 

The  fame  of  Titian  had  now  spread 
wide ;  he  was  requested  by  Bembo  the  secre- 
tary of  Pope  Leo  X,  to  repair  to  Rome  ; 
but,  as  he  was  greatly  occupied,  he  delayed 
going  from  day  to  day,  till  the  intelligence 
arrived  of  Leo's  and  of  Raphael's  death,  and 
he  then  concluded  to  relinquish  his  purpose. 
He  was  requested  to  paint  the  portrait  of  the 
new  Doge  Andrea  Gritti,  and  also  to  copy 
the  portraits  of  the  preceding  Doges. 

In  1536  he  received  the  news  of  the  death 
of  Ariosto.  It  is  the  destiny  of  man  to 
mourn  ;  and  so  felt  Titian,  as,  year  after  year, 
he  was  called  to  part  with  his  early  friends. 

Of  his  domestic  connexions  little  is  said  ; 
but  in  his  two  sons  he  took  great  pleasure, 
and  visited  Rome  for  the  purpose  of  intro- 
ducing them  to  Michelangelo.  The  eldest, 
Horatio  Vccelli,  discovered  early  a  taste  for 
painting,  and  finished  several  portraits  in  the 
style  of  his  father ;  but  his  great  delight  was 
in  chemistry,  and  he  finally  abandoned  the 
pencil  for  his  crucibles. 

In  1566,  Vasari,  the  friend  of  Titian,  and 
afterwards  his  biographer,  came  to  Venice 
expressly  to  visit  him,  and  found  him  in  the 


204  GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN. 

Barberigo  palace,  on  the  grand  canal,  where 
he  resided  till  his  death.  Though  then  in 
the  decline  of  life,  there  were  no  symptoms 
of  infirmity  or  decay  ;  his  mind  was  bright, 
his  movements  vigorous  and  active.  "  Wel- 
come, my  friend,"  said  he  ;  "  you  have  found 
me  preparing  for  one  of  my  youthful  sports, 
we  are  to  have  a  Regatta,  and  I  know  not 
which  are  most  engaged  in  it,  my  boys  or 
myself." 

Titian  then  ordered  the  gondola  which 
he  particularly  patronized,  to  be  brought  be- 
fore the  palace  ;  proudly  it  moved  upon  the 
waters  —  its  dress  was  fantastic,  and  loaded 
with  ornaments  —  plumes  of  burnished  gold 
glittered  in  the  sun,  and  the  winged  lions  of 
the  republic  seemed  about  to  take  their  flight 
to  the  proposed  goal. 

"  Is  this  merely  an  amusement  ?  "  said 
Vasari,  "  or,  is  there  any  particular  object 
connected  with  it  ?  " 

"  Frequently,"  replied  Titian,  "  the  gon- 
doliers challenge  to  a  Regatta.  They  then 
put  up  a  little  flag  at  a  distance,  and  exert  all 
their  skill  and  strength  to  outstrip  each  other 
and  obtain  the  prize.  But  every  now  and 
then  a  Regatta  is  ordered  by  the  government, 
who  feel  the  importance  of  promoting  emula- 


GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN.  205 

tion  among  a  class  of  men  on  whom  we  so 
much  depend.  The  competitors  are  chosen 
from  among  the  most  respectable  of  the  gon- 
doliers, and  I  assure  you  it  is  no  ordinary 
competition." 

"  I  am  fortunate,"  said  Vasari,  ''in  arriving 
in  time  to  witness  an  amusement  which  is 
peculiar  to  Venice,  and  I  perceive  the  policy 
of  yoiu*  government  in  encouraging  it.  It  is 
upon  the  principle  of  the  ancient  Peloponnes- 
ian  courses." 

"  And  scarcely  less  noble,"  said  Titian ; 
"  for,  as  a  crown  of  oak  was  then  the  victors 
reward,  so  a  green  bough  is  the  signal  and 
prize  of  the  victorious  gondolier." 

Titian  was  engaged  in  preparing  for  this 
amusement  till  the  day  came.  His  easel  was 
set  aside,  and  his  noble  pictures,  which  were 
to  earn  him  the  guerdon  of  undying  fame, 
seemed  to  him  of  little  comparative  worth. 

When  the  morning  of  the  Regatta  arrived, 
the  grand  canal  was  alive  with  boats  of 
every  description.  Nothing  could  be  more 
animating  than  the  scene  ;  the  gondoliers  in 
the  gay  and  beautiful  costume,  Avliich  Ti- 
tian has  handed  down  to  posterity  in  some  of 
his  finest  pictures,  each  standing  on  his  boat 
with  its  bright  prow  of  polished  iron  gleam- 


206  GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN. 

ing  in  the  sun,  and  decorated  with  fantastic 
ornaments,  came  forward  to  arrange  their 
gondolas  for  starting. 

Among  them  all,  Titian's  favorite  was 
conspicuous.  "  Now  for  the  prize,  Valerio," 
exclaimed  he  to  a  yoimg  gondolier,  who 
stood  lightly  balancing  himself  on  the  narrow 
and  elevated  part  of  the  boat.  "  Come  for- 
ward, Genevra."  A  dark-eyed  Italian  girl 
made  her  appearance,  and  with  timid  grace 
presented  the  youth  the  oar.  Others  follow- 
ed her  example,  and  every  gondola  seemed  to 
contain  some  mother,  wife,  or  amata,  to  ani- 
mate the  purpose  of  the  gondoliers.  "  Re- 
member," some  of  them  exclaimed,  "  the 
victories  your  fathers  have  gained."  Genevra 
presented  the  oar  in  silence,  and  with  down- 
cast eyes.  Then  followed  the  religious 
ceremonies ;  the  consecrated  water  was  lavish- 
ly dispersed,  the  signal  given,  and  the  boats 
in  motion.  The  course  was  about  four  miles 
along  the  grand  canal,  which  takes  the  form 
of  the  letter  S.  On  each  side  were  placed 
bands  of  music.  The  gondoliers  stood  on  a 
slight  elevation.  Valerio's  figure  seemed  to 
have  attained  new  grace  and  beauty ;  his 
thin  shoes  enabled  him  to  cling  to  the  almost 
imperceptible    footing,   while    the    accuracy 


GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN.  207 

with  which  he  poised  his  body,  keeping  only 
the  upper  part  of  it,  with  his  arms  in  motion, 
gave  him  complete  power  over  the  boat. 
Nothing  could  exceed  the  elegance  of  his 
attitude,  as  he  urged  his  light  bark  over  the 
waves,  skimming  the  surface  of  the  water 
with  the  rapidity  of  the  swallow.  "  Valeric 
will  win  the  victory,"  said  Vasari. 

"  Certainly  he  will,"  exclaimed  Titian, 
"  he  has  all  that  man  can  have  to  animate 
him,  love  and  beauty." 

Titian  was  right ;  Valerio  was  declared 
the  victor,  and  returned  bearing  the  green 
bough. 

During  this  visit,  the  artist  introduced  to 
Vasari  one  of  his  pupils,  Tintoretto,  who  had 
fine  talents  in  music  as  well  as  in  painting. 
Vasari  could  not  but  admit  the  brilliancy  of 
his  coloring  ;  but  he  considered  it  extrava- 
gant, and  his  designs  out  of  nature  :  he  did 
not  at  that  time  foresee  that  he  and  Paolo 
Veroneseo,  who  were  cotemporary,  would  rank 
with  the  first  painters  in  the  world,  and  be- 
come the  glory  of  Venice. 

Tintoretto  followed  the  drawings  of  Mi- 
chelangelo, by  whom  he  was  greatly  encour- 
aged and  assisted,  while  he  adopted  the 
beautiful  coloring  of  his  master. 


208  GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN. 

The  Emperor  Charles  V,  sat  three  times 
for  his  picture  to  Titian,  and  said,  the  last 
time,  he  had  "  thrice  been  made  immortal." 
To  reward  the  genius  who  had  made  him  so, 
he  created  the  artist  a  Count  Palatine,  and 
gave  him  a  pension.  Henry  III,  in  going  from 
Poland  to  France,  visited  Venice,  expressly  to 
see  Titian. 

The  painter  had  now  wealth,  fame,  and 
glory ;  he  had  lived  nearly  a  century,  been 
acquainted  with  the  most  celebrated  men  of 
the  age,  was  the  darling  of  Venice,  with 
whose  habits,  customs,  and  people  he  was 
intimately  associated.  His  days,  in  the  usual 
course  of  nature,  were  drawing  near  to  a 
close.  One  of  his  friends  said  to  him,  "  You 
afford  the  singular  instance  of  a  life  of  un- 
clouded happiness." 

Titian  replied  with  a  melancholy  smile, 
''  There  is  no  such  life  here  ;  but  the  bitter- 
est pangs  I  have  known,  have  arisen  from 
alienation  of  friendship,  and  from  that  rival- 
ship  and  jealousy  which  are  too  common  in 
the  arts." 

In  1576,  the  ])lague  broke  out  at  Venice. 
Titian,  with  his  son  Horace,  were  among 
the  first  victims.  He  left  a  painting  of  David 
unfinished ;  and,  though  he  was  at  the  age 


GIORGIONE    AND    TITIAN.  209 

of  ninety-nine,  it  was  as  vigorous  and  spirited 
in  its  outline  as  any  of  its  predecessors.  The 
painter  who  was  celebrated  by  Ariosto  the 
first  poet  of  the  age,  now  lies  low  in  the 
Church  of  St.  Maria  dei  Frati  at  Venice.  A 
marble  slab  covers  his  ashes,  on  which  is 
inscribed, — 

"  Clui  giace,  il  gran  Tiziano  di  Vecelli, 
Emulator  de  Zeusis  e  degli  Apelli."  * 

*  Here  lies  the  great  Titian  di  Vecelli, 
The  rival  of  Zeuxis  and  Apelles. 


14 


THE  THREE  CARACCI, 
LODOVICO,  ANNIBALE,  AND  AGOSTINO, 

WITH  THEIR    SCHOOL. 


In  the  low  confined  shop  of  a  tailor,  where 
lay  heaped  up  the  different  stuffs  that  com- 
posed the  garments  of  the  fi  tecnth  century, 
sat  a  young  lad,  busily  engaged  in  what 
appeared  to  be  his  vocation  ;  yet  it  was  evi- 
dent, from  his  flushed  check,  the  impatient 
and  somewhat  vexed  air  with  which  he 
occasionally  threw  back  his  head,  that  all  did 
not  go  well :  sometimes  the  memorable  insig- 
nia of  his  employment,  the  shears,  were  called 
to  his  aid,  and  he  cut  and  ripped  without 
mercy  ;  then  the  thimble  again  performed  its 
duty,  and  a  few  stitches  were  taken,  which 
were  as  hastily  jnillcd  out.  He  did  not 
speak,  though  there  was  another  present  who 
seemed  to  be  regarding  him  with  curiosity. 


THE    CARACCI    SCHOOL,  211 

At  length,  the  lad,  in  attempting  to  separate  a 
seam,  gave  the  garment  a  sudden  and  as  it 
appeared  a  hopeless  rent,  for  he  threw  it  aside 
with  an  expression  of  despair,  and  an  excla- 
mation of,  "  What  will  my  father  say  ?  " 

"Say?"  saic^  the  spectator,  who  was  an 
older  brother,  '^  that  you  are  no  more  born  to 
be  a  tailor  than  I  am,  or  than  our  cousin 
Lodovico  was  to  be  a  butcher.  His  father 
tried  a  year  or  two  to  bring  him  to  the  cleav- 
er, and  at  last  perceived  that,  for  all  he  would 
do,  all  the  kine,  swine,  and  sheep  of  Bologna 
would  arrive  at  an  honorable  old  age  and  die 
a  natural  death  under  Lodovico's  patronage. 
Veal  grew  into  beef,  lamb  into  mutton,  and 
those  delicate  little  animals,  roasting  pigs, 
into  stout  old  boars,  and  then  the  matter  was 
given  up,  as  his  father  found  he  could  not 
make  him  a  butcher,  and  he  was  suffered  to 
follow  his  own  inclination.  And  what  is 
the  consequence  ?  He  bids  fair  to  become  a 
great  painter,  and  has  already  earned  money 
enough  by  his  art  to  enable  him  to  travel  and 
see  other  places." 

"  Other  artists,  you  mean,  brother,"  said 
the  young  Annibalc  Caracci.  "  I  have  now 
0  letter  in  my  pocket,  which  I  received  from 
him  yesterday.     He  is  at  Florence,  studying 


212  THE    CARACCi    SCHOOL. 

the  works  of  the  great  masters,  Lionardo  da 
Vinci,  Michelangelo,  and  Andi'ea  del  Sarto. 
From  there  he  will  go  to  Venice,  and  study 
those  of  Titian,  Tintoretto,  and  Paul  Vero- 
nese. Then  he  means  to  remain  some  time 
at  Parma,  and  become  well  acquainted  with 
Parmeggiano's  and  Coreggio's,  and  finish  off 
at  Mantua  with  the  bold  Julio  Romano." 

"  By  my  troth,"  exclaimed  Agostino,  the 
elder  brother,  "  the  boy  rattles  off  the  names 
as  if  he  were  born  to  found  a  school  of 
painting." 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  said  Annibale,  "  why 
may  not  nature  have  given  me  the  power 
that  it  has  granted  to  others  ?  " 

"  But,  as  our  father  could  not  make  me  a 
tailor,  you  know  he  means  to  make  you 
one." 

"  It  is  very  natural,"  said  Annibale,  "  that 
he  should  wish  one  of  us  to  adopt  a  business 
that  has  not  only  made  him  respectable  in 
his  line,  but  given  him  a  comfortable  subsist- 
ence. 1  am  convinced,  however,  from  my 
own  attempts,  that  I  should  disgrace  his  pro- 
fession. 'See,  Agostino,  I  have  been  the 
whole  morning  trying  to  make  this  sleeve 
look  like  the  one  he  has  given  me  for  a 
pattern." 


THE    CARACCI    SCHOOL.  213 

A  loud  laugh  from  Agostino  somewhat 
disconcerted  the  young  tailor.  "  Dost  thou 
not  see,  boy,"  said  he,  "  that  thou  hast  con- 
verted the  doublet  into  a  sleeve  ?  a  fine  piece 
of  work  thou  hast  made  of  it,  truly.  How 
many  pieces  of  coin  dost  thou  expect  to  get 
for  this  precious  garment  ?  For  my  own 
part,  I  wish  thee  no  greater  punishment  than 
to  be  obliged  to  wear  it  thyself ;  thou  wilt 
not  want  any  other  strait  jacket  to  keep 
thee  from  mischief.  But  here  comes  our 
good  father  Antonio.  I  am  off;"  and  he 
sprung  through  the  window  upon  the  brick 
walk  before  the  shop,  and  disappeared 
through  one  of  the  arcades  that  border  the 
streets  of  Bologna. 

"  Well  Annibale,"  said  the  father,  as  he 
entered,  "  how  goes  the  garment  ?  it  will  be 
called  for  to-night." 

"  Father,"  said  Annibale,  meekly,  ''  I 
greatly  fear  I  shall  disgrace  your  calling.  I 
have  been  trying  hard  over  it  the  whole 
morning." 

Antonio  took  it  and  held  it  up.  "  In  truth 
boy,"  said  he,  "  thou  art  clumsy  to  take  so 
many  hours  to  spoil  a  garment ;  almost  any 
blockhead  could  have  accomplished  it  in  ten 
minutes.     I  will  start  fair  with  thee,  Anni- 


214  THE    CARACCI    SCHOOL. 

bale,  as  I  did  with  Agostino.  I  perceive  I 
must  not  look  for  assistance  from  either  in 
my  own  employment.  He  has  chosen  to  be 
an  engraver,  and  I  have  suffered  him  to 
exchange  the  needle  for  the  burin.  My 
business  has  been  a  profitable  one,  and  has 
enabled  me  to  give  you  both  a  good  educa- 
tion. It  also  enables  me  to  furnish  you  both 
with  moderate  means  for  acquiring  any  other 
trade.  I  give  you  leave  to  choose  as  I  have 
your  brother,  only  premising  that  it  is  on 
your  own  industry  you  must  depend  for 
support." 

Annibale  remained  silent,  and  the  father 
continued,  — "  I  have  little  doubt  but  I  could 
get  you  received  into  some  of  the  establish- 
ments as  a  silk  weaver.  This  is  so  large  a 
part  of  our  commerce  that  it  will  be  a  profit- 
able employment,  and  should  you  in  time 
become  a  principal,  will  play  well  into  my 
hands,  as  I  make  use  of  a  large  quantity  of 
silk." 

"  Indeed,  father,"  said  Annibale,  "  I  fear  I 
shall  be  as  poor  a  weaver  as  tailor  ;  but  there 
is  my  cousin  Lodovico's  business." 

"  O  true,"  exclaimed  Antonio,  interrupting 
him,  ''  I  doubt  not  but  his  father  will  be 
very  glad  to  have  you  supply  his  son's  place. 


THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL.         215 

It  was  a  sad  disappointment  to  my  poor 
brother-in-law,  when  Lodovico  gave  up  the 
business  of  the  slaughter-house  ;  but,  in  truth, 
when  I  sent  you  to  the  best  schools,  I  did  not 
think  I  was  educating  you  to  be  a  butcher ! 
However,  every  man  may  make  his  own 
business  ;  and  though  I  am  somewhat  sur- 
prised at  your  choice,  I  shall  not  oppose  it." 

Annibale  for  a  moment  seemed  to  be 
struck  dumb  with  astonishment.  "  A  butch- 
er !  O  no,  father,"  said  he,  "  that  was  not 
what  I  meant ;  it  is  Lodovico's  present  em- 
ployment I  was  thinking  of  —  I  want  to  be  a 
painter." 

"  That  is  the  way,"  said  Antonio,  "  one 
thoughtless  member  of  a  family  is  enough  to 
corrupt  the  whole  ;  however,  I  have  pledged 
my  word,  and  I  will  not  recall  it." 

Annibale  sprang  from  his  ignoble  bench, 
and,  throwing  aside  forever,  shears,  thimble, 
bodkin  and  goose,  drew  a  letter  from  his 
pocket,  and  handed  it  to  his  father.  It  was 
the  one  he  had  before  mentioned  to  his 
brother.  Lodovico  wrote  with  the  enthusi- 
asm of  an  artist,  mentioned  that  he  had  al- 
ready received  a  large  sum  for  painting  the 
ceiling  of  a  church  —  encoiuraged  his  young 
cousin  to  follow  the  bent  of  his  inclination, 


216        THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL. 

and  promised  to  take  him  as  a  pupil,  on  his 
return,  if  he  could  secure  the  consent  of  his 
father. 

"  This  is  very  well,  so  far,"  said  Antonio, 
thoughtfully,  "but  I  have  always  understood 
that  it  required  bright  parts  to  become  a 
painter.  Michelangelo  and  Raffaello,  whose 
names  thou  passest  so  trippingly  on  the 
tongue,  were  both  born  great  men ;  but  thou, 
my  poor  Annibale  —  thou,  who  canst  not  make 
vest  or  tunic,  and  art  a  whole  morning  slash- 
ing and  spoiling  a  simple  toga,  what  will  be- 
come of  thee,  by  the  side  of  thy  cousin  Lodo- 
vico,  who  it  seems  has  painted  the  inside  of  a 
church.  I  fear  thou  wilt  never  get  beyond 
grinding  the  paints.  Well !  as  I  said  before, 
every  occupation  well  performed,  is  credita- 
ble ;  and  so  if  thou  wilt  choose  to  grind 
paints  thy  life  long,  with  the  fear  of  God  be- 
fore thy  eyes,  I  give  my  consent ;  but  one 
thing  remember,  my  son,  that  if  thou  couldst 
win  a  cardinal's  hat  without  good  morals  and 
good  conduct,  it  would  only  disgrace  thee." 

"  Father  !  "  said  Annibale,  "  you  have  for- 
gotten that  my  cousin  Lodovico  could  never 
learn  his  father's  business,  and  yet  they  say 
he  will  make  an  excellent  painter ;  it  is  very 
fortunate  that  all  are  not  born  with  the  same 
tastes  and  capacities." 


THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL.         217 

"  There  is  truth  in  that  boy,"  replied  An- 
tonio ;  "  well,  well,  worse  come  to  worst  thou 
canst  take  up  the  needle  again ;  it  is  a  good 
thing,  Tenere  '1  piede  in  piu  stafFe.*  But 
Lodovico's  not  choosing  to  be  a  butcher  is  no 
proof  that  he  might  not  like  to  be  a  tailor,  if 
he  had  been  trained  to  it ;  one  is  a  gentle- 
manly art,  and  the  other  .  .  .  but  let  every 
man  mind  his  own  business."  f 

From  this  time  Annibale  no  longer  occu- 
pied his  bench  in  the  shop.  With  persever- 
ing industry  he  began  to  apply  himself  to  the 
rules  of  drawing,  and  prepare  for  Lodovico's 
return.  Agostino  had  early  forsworn  the 
vocation  of  a  tailor,  and  his  father  had  put  him 
to  a  goldsmith.  There  is  a  perceptible  link 
between  this  and  many  other  mechanical  and 
scientific  arts :  he  soon  began  to  engrave,  and 
astonished  his  father  and  young  companions, 
by  an  early  and  quite  pathetic  representation 
of  Cain  in  the  act  of  killing  Abel.  But 
Agostino  had  not  the  power  of  devoting  him- 
self to  one  object  ;  he  was  full  of  imagina- 
tion, and  every  new  pursuit  engaged  his 
fancy  :  sometimes  it  was  music  ;  sometimes 


'  To  have  two  strings  to  one's  bow. 
tCiascun'  attenda  a'  fatii  suoi. 


218         THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL. 

dancing  ;  then  poetry  and  mathematics  had 
their  turn. 

Annibale  on  the  contrary,  devoted  himself 
to  the  one  pursuit  of  painting ;  he  corres- 
ponded with  Lodovico,  who  encouraged  and 
animated  him,  and  they  were  already  form- 
ing a  project  which  was  matured  and  put 
into  execution  in  after  years. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Annibale  strove  to 
unite  his  brother's  pursuits  with  his  own  ; 
though  closely  allied  and  fellow-students, 
their  habits  and  tastes  were  diiferent.  Agos- 
tino  thought  to  derive  consequence  from 
those  with  whom  he  associated ;  and  he  was 
continually  seeking  the  company  of  men  of 
wealth,  of  rank,  and  brilliant  powers.  Anni- 
bale was  very  different ;  modest,  and  not 
fitted  to  shine  in  gay  society,  he  avoided 
fashion,  and  found  companions  in  the  hum- 
blest men. 

"  You  will  never  make  an  artist,"  said 
Agostino  to  him  one  day  ;  "  there  is  nothing 
high  born,  or  high  bred  in  your  conceptions. 
Do  what  you  will,  there  always  appears 
through  them,  Antonio,  the  tailor's  son." 

''  May  we  both  of  us  be  as  good  men  as 
our  father,"  replied  Annibale,  quietly.  "  But 
truly,   brother,  neither  high  birth  nor  high 


THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL.         219 

breeding  are  my  aims ;  give  me  nature,  pure 
nature,  and  I  ask  no  more ;  the  nearer  I  ap- 
proach to  it  the  better  satisfied  I  shall  be 
with  my  performance," 

"Perhaps,"  said  Agostino,  contemptuously, 
"  it  is  the  study  of  nature  that  leads  you  into 
such  low  society." 

"  Take  back  that  harsh  word,"  replied  An- 
nibale  ;  "I  associate  with  my  equals,  those 
who  are  born  in  the  same  station  as  myself. 
I  neither  look  up  to  them,  nor  down  upon 
them  —  we  have  mutual  confidence  in  each 
other  ;  wherever  I  see  genius  and  merit,  I 
honor  it,  though  in  the  humblest  grade  of 
life ;  and  believe  me,  brother,  there  is  more 
dignity  in  keeping  within  our  own  station, 
than  in  aspiring  beyond  it.  Our  father  has 
often  told  us  that  true  honor  consists  not  in 
the  profession  we  pursue,  but  in  the  manner 
in  which  we  fill  it." 

"It  is  a  pity  you  bad  not  kept  to  the 
thimble,"  said  Agostino. 

"  No,"  replied  Annibale,  "  I  never  could 
have  done  justice  to  my  father's  business  ; 
what  was  respectable  in  his  hands  would 
have  been  mean  in  mine  ;  for  I  had  no  capa- 
city for  it.  I  could  sketch  a  man  well 
clothed,  but  I  could  not  clothe  him.     It  was 


220         THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL. 

the  conviction  that  I  could  not  do  this,  that 
gave  me  resohition  enough  to  break  my  mind 
to  my  father,  though  I  had  great  compunc- 
tion at  leaving  him,  in  his  old  age,  to  the 
labor  of  a  business,  from  the  gains  of  which 
we  have  had  our  education,  and  in  which  it 
was  very  natural  for  him  to  expect  aid  from 
at  least  one  of  his  sons." 

Agostino  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  then 
suddenly  throwing  his  arm  over  his  brother's 
shovilder,  he  exclaimed,  '•'  You  are  a  noble 
fellow,  Annibale,  and  always  in  the  right ; 
and  I  suppose  I  am  always  in  the  wrong.  It 
does,  however,  vex  me,  when  I  am  walking 
with  belted  knights  and  high-born  cavaliers, 
to  meet  you  arm  in  arm  with  journeymen, 
and  may-hap  cobblers." 

"  They  are  my  fellow  men,"  said  Annibale, 
"  and  one  day  or  other  your  knights  and 
cavaliers  will  lie  as  low  as  they  ;  for  death 
makes  no  distinction." 

"■  Learning,  however,  docs,"  said  Agostino, 
proudly  ;  "  men  of  letters  and  of  liberal  edu- 
cation should  rank  above  boors." 

"  To  such,"  said  Annibale,  "  let  honor  be 
rendered  —  I  render  it.  But  mere  sordid 
wealth,  or  what  you  call  high  birth,  excites 
in  my  mind  no  emulation.     For  education  I 


THE    CARACCI    SCHOOL.  221 

have  a  high  respect ;  perhaps  I  give  an  imag- 
inary value  to  it,  from  not  possessing  it  in  a 
greater  degree.  You,  Agostino,  are  more  for- 
tunate ;  my  father  gave  you,  as  his  oldest 
son,  advantages  which  he  could  not  afford  to 
both  ;  but,  if  you  bore  yourself  more  meekly 
under  them,  they  would  become  you  better, 
and  perhaps  I  might  feel  the  difference  less." 
There  was  something  in  this  calm  appeal 
that  touched  the  gentler  feelings  of  Agostino. 
"  I  have  many  faults,"  said  he,  "  but  indeed, 
Annibale,  you  and  I  are  formed  of  different 
clay." 

"  No,  brother,"  replied  Annibale,  "  we  are 
all  formed  of  the  same  clay,  and  by  the  same 
hand ;  but  I  admit  some  are  more  nicely 
moulded  than  others.  There  are  various 
niches  to  be  filled,  and  no  model  ought  to  be 
thrown  aside  as  worthless.  This  holds  good 
with  mere  clay  models  ;  but  when  we  come 
to  the  mind  or  soul,  how  much  more  ought 
we  to  realize  that  each  has  its  place,  and 
cannot  be  spared  in  the  great  temple  of  the 
universe." 

"  I  perceive  our  cousin  Lodovico  has 
given  you  a  taste  of  his  philosophy,"  said 
Agostino  ;  "  he  has  conceived  romantic  plans 
of  regenerating  the  age,  in  some  way  which 


222         THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL. 

I  cannot  understand,  and  am  all  unworthy  to 
co-operate  in." 

"  He  thinks  quite  otherwise,"  replied  An- 
nibale  ;  ''  and  whatever  plans  he  may  put  in 
execution,  he  will,  I  am  sure,  require  your 
aid ;  your  knowledge  of  engraving  and  of 
mathematics  will  be  valuable  to  the  arts.  But 
I  think  the  versatility  of  your  pursuits  are 
opposed  to  any  great  degree  of  excellence  in 
any  one." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Agostino, 
with  his  usual  impatience  of  reproof. 

"  I  confess,"  said  Annibale,  "  it  surprised 
me  yesterday  to  see  you  playing  the  dancing- 
master." 

"  That  it  surprised  you,  shows  your  igno- 
rance of  the  accomplishments  of  a  cavalier," 
answered  Agostino,  rudely.  "  You,  who  are 
born  to  labor  like  the  ox,  can  hardly  com- 
prehend the  spirit  of  a  high-mettled  courser, 
nor  how  much  ground  he  may  clear  ;  music 
and  dancing  are  noble  recreations." 

"  I  am  little  skilled  in  either,"  said  Anni- 
bale ;  "  but  music  I  have  understood  to  be 
the  language  of  the  soul,  and  dancing  that  of 
the  feet.  I  cannot  think  the  art  liigh  or 
noble,  in  M^iich  dogs  and  bears  may  be 
taught  to  excel." 


THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL.        223 

Antonio  entered  just  as  Agostino  was  re- 
plying to  his  brother  in  a  peremptory  tone. 

"Always  at  variance!"  said  Antonio. 
"  One  would  think  there  were  real  troubles 
enough  in  life,  without  creating  new  ones,  by 
bickerings  and  domestic  broils.  However,  as 
I  find  you  cannot  live  together  in  brotherly 
love,  I  have  determined  to  make  you,  Agos- 
tino, as  being  the  oldest,  the  offer  of  going  to 
live  with  Lodovico  Caracci." 

Agostino  gladly  accepted  the  proposal.  It 
opened  a  new  path  to  his  ambition,  nor  was 
he  sorry  to  leave  the  spot  where  his  humble 
birth  made  him  secondary  in  the  society  he 
most  loved  to  frequent. 

Annibale  contemplated  his  brother's  depar- 
ture from  Bologna  with  a  feeling  that  border- 
ed on  envy.  This  baleful  emotion  he  had 
hitherto  shut  out  from  his  heart.  He  had 
seen  his  brother  elevated  to  circles  from 
which  he  was  excluded,  without  a  sigh  ;  he 
had  even  kept  aloof  4ip  all  that  could  divert 
iiis  attention  from  tlu^  ;iit  to  which  he  re- 
solved to  devote  his  whole  time  and  faculties  ; 
he  had  unrepiningly  yielded  to  seniority  and 
the  advantages  of  a  superior  education ;  but 
when  Agostino  was  selected  by  his  father  to 
reside  with  Lodovico,  his  heart  swelled  with 


224         THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL. 

a  sense  of  injury.  His  cousin,  who  was  his 
beau  ideal  of  goodness  and  truth  had  long 
expressed  an  earnest  wish  that  he  might 
come  to  him,  and  enjoy  the  advantages  of 
seeing  the  works  of  Michelangelo.  "  But  I 
have  said  not  a  word,"  thought  Annibale, 
"because  I  would  not  put  my  father  to  any 
new  expense  ;  and  now  Agostino,  who  has 
gathered  flowers  from  all  the  fine  arts,  from 
music,  poetry  and  painting,  reaps  again  the 
fruits  of  his  accidental  seniority."  The 
young  artist  drooped  under  what  he  thought 
injustice.  For  a  few  days  his  pencil  was 
thrown  aside,  and  he  sat  brooding  over  his 
disappointment ;  but  he  loved  his  brother 
with  true  afl'ection,  and,  on  bidding  him  adieu, 
gave  him  a  design  upon  which  he  had  spent 
much  time. 

Though  Agostino  often  yielded  to  the 
violence  and  impatience  of  his  disposition,  he 
felt  the  force  of  Annibale 's  forbearance  ;  and 
now,  when  they  were  parting,  the  brothers 
embraced  with  heartfelt  affection. 

There  are  few  ties  so  strong  as  those  of 
kindred :  the  wise  Creator  has  bound  fami- 
lies together  by  mutual  interests ;  and,  how- 
ever diversified  and  uncongenial  may  be  their 
pursuits,    it   is   rare  that   there   is    not    one 


THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL.         225 

fountain  of  inexhaustible  love,  from  which 
ajl  may  draw.  This  fountain  is  so  liberally- 
supplied,  that  it  is  apt  to  be  held  too  cheap, 
and  it  is  only  when  the  waters  are  choked 
or  dried  up  that  its  real  value  is  understood  ; 
then  the  soul  pants  like  the  "  hart  after  the 
water-brook."  Thus  felt  Annibale  when  his 
brother  was  actually  gone,  and  he  had  no 
one  with  whom  to  communicate,  no  one 
who  understood  his  wishes  or  his  projects. 
With  unremitting  industry,  however,  he  pur- 
sued his  labors.  Labors  they  truly  were,  for 
all  his  acquisitions  were  toilsome.  He  had 
nothing  of  the  quick  conception  of  Agostino. 
His  progress  was  slow  and  gradual ;  and 
he  had  acquired  from  this  the  appellation  of 
"the  ox."  "My  cousin  Lodovico,"  thought 
he,  "  won  that  title  before  me,  and  was  so 
slow  in  his  perceptions  that  when  he  first 
studied  at  Bologna,  his  master  Fontana  ad- 
vised him  to  relinquish  the  arts  ;  and  even 
when  he  went  to  Venice,  Titian  gave  him 
the  same  counsel.  Courage,  Annibale !  the 
ox  at  the  plough  will  in  time  make  the 
ground  yield  its  richest  fruits." 

When   Agostino   arrived   at  Florence,    he 
was   cordially  welcomed  by   Lodovico,  who 
regretted  that  Annibale  had  not  accompanied 
15 


226         THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL. 

him :  he   made  minute   inquiries   into    their 
different  modes  of  study. 

"  I  have  brought  a  design  of  Annibale's," 
said  Agostino,  "  that  he  gave  me  at  parting," 
and  he  unrolled  a  sketch  of  the  conversion 
of  St.  Paul,  which  he  afterwards  painted. 
Lodovico  regarded  it  with  much  pleasure,  as 
giving  indication  of  great  excellence  in  draw- 
ing. He  communicated  his  plan  of  forming 
a  school  for  the  fine  arts,  and  determined  to 
write  to  Antonio  and  request  him  to  permit 
Annibale  to  join  them  at  Florence.  In  roll- 
ing up  the  design,  they  discovered  the  first 
attempt  of  Annibale  at  poetry  :  it  was  a  copy 
of  verses  written  on  the  back,  and  only  worth 
recording  as  expressive  of  his  state  of  feeling 
towards  his  brother,  whom  the  father  had 
sent  away  because  they  could  not  agree  :  — 

Thy  path  is  o'er  the  mighiy  dead, 

Among  the  works  of  art, 
Where  thou  with  careless  steps  wilt  tread, 

All  free  and  light  of  heart. 

O  what  to  thee  is  Raphael's  line, 

Where,  with  immortal  light, 
He  paints  the  Saviour's  form  divine 

In  dazzling  glory  briglit  1 

Or,  what  to  thee  that  angel  choir 

Revealed  by  opening  skies. 
While  Saint  Cecelia  strikes  her  lyre, 

And  notes  seraphic  rise? 


THE  CAKACCl  SCHOOL.         227 

Or,  what  to  thee  that  noble  form, 

By  Buonaroti  wrought, 
With  Sinai's  sacred  mission  warm, 

Inspired  with  more  than  thought? 

Or  he,  whose  gentle  soul  has  shed 

Its  calm  and  sweet  repose 
O'er  the  blest  Virgin's  sainted  head. 

As  holy  visions  rose — 

Coreggio !  't  was  for  thee  to  find 

The  models  of  thine  art 
In  thy  own  pure,  exalted  mind, 

And  deeply  feeling  heart. 

Brother,  farewell !  and  if  e'en  now 

The  laurel  blooms  for  thee, 
Bind  with  immortal  wreaths  thy  brow, — 

But  save  one  flower  for  me. 

Agostino  read  his  brother's  lines  with  a 
smile,  and  a  tear  which  he  hastily  dashed 
away. 

*'  I  verily  believe  it  is  the  first  time,"  said 
he,  "  that  poor  Annibale  has  ever  played 
truant  to  his  first  love,  and  coquetted  with 
either  of  my  rival  muses.  Calliope  or  Erato, 
who,  to  say  the  truth,  do  not  seem  much  in- 
clined to  smile  on  either  of  us." 

"  So  much  the  better  ;  "  said  Lodovico, 
"  Ufe  is  too  short  to  admit  of  time's  being 
frittered  away,  among  a  variety  of  pursuits. 
It  is  the  vigorous  concentration  of  the  mind 


228        THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL. 

on  one  object  which  developes  its  powers. 
I  have  feared  the  ideal,  as  a  rock  upon  which 
many  of  my  cotemporaries  have  spht."  * 

"  There  spoke  the  ox  ;  "  thought  Agostino, 
"  let  him  keep  to  the  plough,  for  all  me  !  I 
cry  you  mercy,  good  cousin  Lodovico  ;  who 
had  more  of  the  ideal  than  Raphael  ?  Me- 
thinks  he  often  hovers  midway  between 
heaven  and  earth ;  and  even  your  great 
Michelangelo  walks  with  his  head  in  the 
clouds,  and  his  feet  in  the  lower  regions. 
For  my  part  1  am  determined  to  pay  court  to 
the  nine  sisters.  The  only  reason  that  the 
cunning  old  Grecians  did  not  find  a  tenth  to 
preside  over  painting,  was  because  it  would 
take  the  whole  nine  to  make  her.  Now,  by 
uniting  the  rare  excellences  of  all,  I  make 
for  myself  a  muse  that  deserves  to  be  called 
the  Genius  of  Painting." 

"  I  am  sick  of  the  extravaganzas,"  said 
Lodovico,  "  that  modern  artists  dignify  with 
the  name  of  genius.  Every  new  painter 
sets  himself  up  for  originality  ;  yet  it  is  only 
in  the  study  of  the  great  masters  that  any 
degree  of  perfection  can  be  acquired.  Who 
can  hope  to  exceed  the  majesty  of  da  Vinci 

*  Lanzi  says  of  Lodovico,   tcmea  1'  ideale   come  uno 
scoglia  ove  tanti  de'  suoi  coulcmporanei  aveau  rotto. 


THE    CARACCI    SCHOOL.  229 

or  Buonaroti,  the  grace  of  Raphael,  or  the 
colors  of  Titian,  the  spirit  of  Tintoretto  or 
the  splendid  decoration  of  Paolo  Veronese  ? 
Or,  who  can  present  perspective  to  the  eye 
with  more  truth,  more  roundness,  and  more 
enchanting  power  than  Coreggio  ?  It  is  a 
true  and  exact  imitation  of  the  old  that  we 
want." 

"  Depend  upon  it,"  said  Agostino,   "  Anni- 
bale  is  your  man." 

Lodovico  very  soon  wrote  for  him  to  come 
to  Florence,  and,  on  his  arrival,  laid  before  the 
two  brothers  the  plan  which  he  had  long 
been  meditating  for  the  improvement  of  the 
art  of  painting,  which,  at  the  close  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  was  evidently  on  the  de- 
cline. He  proposed  to  them,  to  visit  Parma 
and  Venice,  and  offered  to  assist  them  with 
every  facility  in  his  power.  They  were  to 
make  themselves  acquainted  with  what  was 
most  excellent  in  each  school,  and,  on  their 
return,  to  unite  with  him  in  forming  an  Acad- 
emy for  artists.  They  at  once  embraced  the 
proposal,  and,  after  having  pursued  their  vari- 
ous researches,  and  acquired  a  useful  store 
of  knowledge,  the  three  cousins  again  met 
at  Bologna.  On  their  return,  they  were 
one  day  in  company,  and  Agostino  entered 


230         THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL. 

into  a  description  of  the  celebrated  statue  of 
the  Laocoon.  At  length,  he  observed  that 
his  brother  Annibale  was  wholly  silent. 
"  How  is  it  possible,"  said  he,  "  you  can 
take  no  interest  in  this  noble  work  ?  " 

Annibale  took  a  crayon,  and  sketched  on 
the  wall  a  spirited  outline  of  the  statue. 
"  The  poet,"  said  he,  ''  pahits  with  words  ; 
the  painter  speaks  with  works." 

The  sound  and  excellent  judgment  of 
Lodovico,  was  the  moving  spring  of  the  insti- 
tution that  was  now  to  be  formed.  He  had 
carefully  studied  the  characters  of  the  two 
brothers,  had  marked  the  diversity  of  their 
tastes,  and  regretted  the  dissensions  that 
often  occurred  between  them.  The  influ- 
ence which  he  exercised  over  them  had  a 
high  moral,  as  well  as  scientific  object.  He 
impressed  upon  them  the  duty  of  mutual 
patience  and  forbearance,  and  pointed  out  to 
them  the  advantage  they  might  derive  from 
each  others  opposite  tastes  and  pursuits.  By 
degrees  he  moderated  the  excessive  ardor 
of  Agostino,  and  inspired  Annibale  with  a 
proper  confidence  in  his  own  personal  and 
intellectual  endowments.  By  this  friendly 
and  judicious  conduct,  all  signs  of  enmity 
disappeared,  and  the  most  perfect  harmony 


THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL.         231 

existed  between  the  two  brothers.  They 
united  with  Lodovico  in  the  great  design  of 
the  Academy,  and,  though  each  pursued  his 
own  pecuhar  diiFerent  branch,  but  one  heart 
seemed  to  animate  them.  They  were  free 
from  all  sordid  desire  of  gain,  without  rival- 
ship  and  without  envy.  They  collected  all 
the  models  of  ancient  art,  that  could  be  pro- 
cured, introduced  the  study  of  anatomy,  of 
perspective,  and  of  every  science  that  was 
necessary  to  form  an  artist. 

The  amiable  and  conciliating  manners  of 
the  founders  of  the  new  school,  which  went 
by  the  name  of  the  Incamminati,*  at  length 
subdued  the  violent  opposition  that  had  at 
first  been  made  to  it,  by  the  teachers  of  the 
time.  Dionisio  Calvert  had  been  a  popular 
instructor,  but  he  was  violent  and  coarse  in 
his  manner,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  buffet  his 
pupils,  for  any  trifling  misdemeanor,  and 
finally  drove  them  away.  Even  Fontana 
regretted  that  he  was  too  old  to  adopt  the 
new  style.  Other  schools  became  deserted, 
and  the  Caracci  prevailed. 

The  part  of  each  was  important,  but  per- 
haps  that   of  Agostino   the   most  laborious. 


*  From  incamminare  —  to  show  the  way. 


232         THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL. 

He  prepared  treatises  on  perspective  and 
architecture,  for  the  use  of  the  students, 
explained  the  theory  of  muscles  and  bones, 
and  had  anatomy  taught,  with  its  various 
branches,  by  Anthony  la  Tour. 

He  proposed  difficult  questions  in  history 
and  antiquity,  and  men  of  learning  were  in- 
vited to  discuss  them  at  the  Academy.  Nor 
did  he  neglect  the  song  and  the  lyre,  but 
often  stimulated  and  rewarded  his  pupils  by 
the  united  influence  of  poetry  and  music. 

The  great  principle  of  the  school  was,  to 
combine  the  strictest  observation  of  nature 
with  the  imitation  of  the  old  masters.  Every 
scholar  was  at  liberty  to  choose  the  path 
which  best  suited  him,  and  to  adopt  a  style 
of  his  own  ;  but  every  style  was  to  have  for 
its  root  and  basis,  nature  and  imitation  of  the 
great  masters.  When  any  doubts  occurred, 
the  brothers  always  had  recourse  to  Lodovico. 
They  daily  inspected  the  designs  of  the 
pupils,  and  both  masters  and  scholars  were 
continually  devoted  to  the  art.  Even  their 
recreations  and  amusements  were  turned  to 
use  :  they  rambled  in  the  fields,  and  sketch- 
ed landscapes  from  nature,  or  amused  them- 
selves by  drawing  caricatures.  Many  of 
their  exercises  were  in  the  open  air ;  and,  to 


THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL.         233 

secure  health  at  once  of  mind  and  body,  was 
the  constant  aim  of  the  benevolent  Lodovico. 

The  opposition  of  the  painters  of  Bologna 
to  the  Caracci  had  now  nearly  ceased.  Some 
had  embraced  their  principles  ;  others  finding 
opposition  useless,  relinquished  it.  Guido, 
Caravaggio  and  Domenichino  became  pupils 
of  the  Academy.  The  department  of  engra- 
ving belonged  particularly  to  Agostino,  which 
he  taught  in  great  perfection. 

As  has  been  observed,  Lodovico's  moral 
influence  exerted  powerful  control  over  the 
brothers,  and  seemed  necessary  to  restrain 
their  impatience.  But  there  were  various 
causes  which  had  a  tendency  to  produce  dis- 
sension. The  taste  of  Agostino  was  refined 
by  poetry,  music  and  belles-lettres,  almost  to 
fastidiousness.  He  was  often  critical  on  the 
works  of  Annibale  to  a  vexatious  degree, 
while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  greater  energy 
and  perseverance  of  the  younger  brother  led 
him  to  underrate  the  elegant  accomplishments 
of  the  elder.  Biographers  give  inconsistent 
accounts  of  the  petty  disagreements  between 
them,  attributing  to  them  low  and  unAVorthy 
jealousies,  because  they  do  not  bear  in  mind 
the  difference  of  character  which  produced 
mutual   opposition.     It  is  evident,  however, 


234        THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL. 

that  the  sacred  bonds  of  affection  remained 
unbroken.  One  biographer  says,  "  They 
could  not  be  contented  together  or  apart."^ 

In  the  new  pupil  of  the  Academy,  Guido 
Reni,  Annibale  took  great  delight :  his  fine 
taste,  and  frank  amiable  disposition,  won  his 
affection.  He  and  Domenichino  were  re- 
ceived at  the  same  time  from  the  school  of 
Calvert. 

They  had  become  imbued  with  the  extrav- 
agant modes  of  coloring  which  distinguished 
Caravaggio.  His  was  a  method  of  painting 
that  took  with  the  people  ;  it  was  a  striking 
contrast  of  light  and  shade,  that  required  no 
delicate  perceptions  of  taste  to  understand : 
he  drew  his  saints  and  heroes  from  his 
companions,  who  were  often  porters,  or,  at 
Venice,  gondoliers.  Nature,  it  is  true,  was 
his  model  ;  but  it  was  nature  just  as  he  found 
it  with  all  its  imperfections  :  this  made  his 
style  only  suitable  for  particular  subjects. 
One  of  his  celebrated  pictures,  which  repre- 
sents two  gondoliers,  apparently  father  and 
son,  drawing  a  young  nobleman  into  deep 
play,  and  communicating  with  each  other  by 
secret  signs,  presents  a  subject  suited  to  his 
style.  The  Caracci  greatly  feared  the  cor- 
ruption of  public  taste  from  this  novel  and 


THE    CARACCI    SCHOOL. 


235 


striking  manner,  and  exerted  all  their  in- 
fluence against  it.  Annibale  who  had  made 
the  graces  of  Coreggio  his  peculiar  study  at 
Parma,  turned  from  it  with  disgust.  '•  Tell 
me,"  said  Guide,  ^'  how  shall  I  best  conquer 
the  propensity  I  have  already  acquired,  to  the 
bold  and  striking  contrasts  of  Caravaggio  ?  " 

''  To  the  crudeness  and  violence  of  his 
tones,"  said  Annibale,  "  I  would  oppose  ten- 
derness and  suavity;  I  would  represent  my. 
figures  in  the  open  day.  Far  from  avoiding 
the  difficulties  of  the  art  under  the  disguise 
of  powerful  shadows,  I  would  court  them  by 
displaying  every  part  in  the  clearest  light. 
For  the  vulgar  nature  which  Caravaggio  is 
content  to  imitate,  I  would  substitute  the 
most  select  forms,  and  the  most  beautiful 
ideal." 

How  well  Guide  profited  from  these  in- 
structions, his  pictures  show.  His  Madonnas 
are  displayed  in  the  clearest  light,  and  yet 
not  a  fault  can  be  detected.  The  noble 
simplicity  of  their  figures,  the  correct  folding 
of  the  drapery,  the  eyes  looking  upward  with 
an  expression  that  can  only  be  felt,  not  de- 
scribed, all  penetrate  the  heart,  and  possess  a 
beauty  which  the  uneducated,  and  even  child- 
hood itself,  can  comprehend.       His  pictures 


236         THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL. 

turned  the  tide  of  admiration  from  Caravag- 
gio,  and  the  Italians  decided  that  "  grace  and 
beauty  dwelt  with  the  pencil  of  Guido,  to 
animate  his  figures." 

Domenichino,  or  Zampieri,  (which  was 
his  family  name,)  was  one  of  the  scholars 
of  the  rough  Dionisio  Calvert:  his  master 
one  day  discovered  him  copying  one  of 
Anni bale's  drawings,  and  punished  him  for 
what  he  considered  a  transgression,  with  the 
utmost  severity.  His  father,  indignant  at 
such  an  outrage,  determined  to  take  him 
from  the  school,  and  place  him  with  the 
Caracci.  He  was  received  by  them  with 
their  usual  kindness,  and  put  into  the  regular 
course  of  instruction. 

It  was  the  practice  of  the  seminary,  on  cer- 
tain days  to  excite  the  emulation  of  the 
scholars  by  proposing  prizes.  Soon  after 
Domenichino  entered  the  Academy,  such  a 
day  occurred.  Hitherto  the  young  scholar 
had  been  little  regarded  ;  the  severity  with 
which  he  had  been  uniformly  treated  by  his 
old  master,  had  depressed  his  youthful  mind  ; 
he  felt  that  it  was  presumption  to  contend  for 
the  prize,  and,  after  having  made  his  drawing, 
threw  it  aside,  determined  not  to  endure  the 
ridicule    which    his   arrogance   might   draw 


THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL.        237 

upon  him.  When  the  morning  came,  he 
withdrew  from  the  ambitious  group,  but  not 
unobserved  by  Guide  and  Albani,  his  fellow- 
students.  "  See  poor  Zampieri ;  "  said  the 
latter,  "  let  us  follow  him  and  encourage 
him  to  offer  his  drawing ;  he  has  been  a  long 
while  preparing  it,  and  now  his  heart  fails 
him."  It  was  some  time  before  they  in- 
spired him  with  sufficient  confidence  to  enter 
the  hsts.  One  after  another  brought  forward 
their  productions,  and  when  his  turn  came,  he 
would  gladly  have  retreated,  intimidated  by 
the  air  of  conscious  superiority  with  which 
many  of  the  pupils  regarded  him. 

Lodovico  scanned  every  drawing  presented, 
with  impartial  judgment,  and  to  the  astonish- 
ment of  all,  but  most  so  of  the  modest  Dome- 
nichino  himself,  declared  him  the  successful 
candidate  !  At  this  time,  not  only  Guide  and 
Albani  were  competitors,  but  Lanfranco  and 
Guercino  also,  all  pupils  of  the  Caracci. 

Agostino's  eccentricity  led  him  to  peculiar 
methods  of  instruction  ,•  and  he  was  fond  of 
imitating  the  ancient  legislators,  by  giving 
out  hints  in  doggerel  rhyme.  The  following 
is  a  specimen  :  — 

Who  an  ariist  fain  would  make, 
Must  from  Rome  his  models  take ; 


238         THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL. 

His  spirit  from  fair  Venice  draw, 
Lombardo's  coloring  make  his  law ; 
Must  Buonaroti's  path  pursue, 
With  Tiziano's  just  and  true ; 
Coreggio's  style  supremely  fair. 
And  Raffaello's  noble  air. 

It  was  said  that  the  Academy  owed  its 
success  to  the  principles  of  Lodovico,  the 
labors  of  Agostino,  and  the  zeal  and  persever- 
ance of  Annibale. 

A  new  career  was  now  opening  for  the 
younger  brother.  He  was  invited  to  Rome 
by  Cardinal  Farnese,  to  paint  the  halls  of  his 
palace.  Annibale  was  willing  to  go,  as  it 
gave  him  an  opportunity  of  seeing  Raphael's 
works,  and  some  of  the  finest  statues  of  an- 
tiquity. Hitherto,  Coreggio,  the  humble, 
the  neglected  Coreggio,  he  who  died  in 
poverty,  had  been  his  great  model  ;  but  the 
study  of  the  antique  at  Rome  gave  a  more 
learned  and  less  pleasing  character  to  his 
style.  After  having  painted  there  some  time, 
his  heart  yearned  for  the  companionship  of 
his  brother,  and  he  persuaded  the  Cardinal  to 
send  for  him  also.  They  met  as  brothers 
meet  after  a  long  separation ;  but  new  diffi- 
culties arose.  Lodovico  was  not  there  to 
speak  peace  to  their  tumultuous  passions. 
Annibale  conceived   that  he   had  a  right  to 


THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL.         239 

direct ;  Agostino  refused  to  follow,  and  Car- 
dinal Farnese,  perceiving  their  variance,  sent 
Agostino  to  Parma,  recommending  him  to  the 
Duke  Ranuccio. 

Annibale  pursued  his  labors  at  the  pal- 
ace with  unwearied  industry,  being  often 
cheered  by  visits  from  his  former  pupils,  who 
at  various  times  assisted  him,  leaving  in  the 
small  pannels  of  the  walls,  specimens  of  their 
skill,  as  tributes  to  their  ancient  instructors  ; 
so  that  the  gallery  of  the  Farnese  palace 
affords  probably  a  more  full  and  impressive 
exhibition  of  the  power  and  success  of  the 
Bolognesc  school,  than  any  other  place  in 
Italy.  Before  Annibale  quitted  Bologna, 
there  had  existed  an  apparent  alienation  be- 
tween him  and  Guido  ;  and,  as  it  was  obvious, 
it  was  immediately  attributed  to  envy.  Bi- 
ographers dismissed  the  subject,  by  saying 
that  the  Caracci  could  not  forgive  Guido  for 
his  success  in  the  method  they  had  pointed 
out.  The  true  cause  was  a  different  one. 
Guido  had  unfortunately  contracted  a  love  of 
play,  which  threatened  to  undermine  his 
character.  With  all  his  fine  social  qualities, 
this  propensity  seemed  to  bo  irresistible  to 
him.  Annibale,  after  in  vain  remonstrating, 
dismissed  him  from  the  Academy,  and  silent- 


240         THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL. 

ly  bore  the  stigma,  which  cahimny  cast  upon 
him,  of  being  prompted  by  migenerous  mo- 
tives. Afterwards,  Guido,  being  invited  to 
Rome  by  Gioseppino  Cesari,  went  thither  in 
company  with  Albani,  and  on  his  arrival 
hastened  to  see  Annibale  in  the  palace  where 
he  was  still  employed.  The  pupil  met  his 
master  with  renewed  affection.  He  loved 
and  respected  Annibale,  and  was  received  by 
him  as  a  returning  prodigal.  At  that  time 
Caravaggio  was  in  high  repute  at  Rome,  and 
when  Guido  arrived,  it  appeared  impossible 
that  two  styles  of  painting  so  entirely  differ- 
ent should  be  at  the  same  time  well  received. 
Annibale  exhorted  him  to  preserve  his  own 
superior  manner  ;  but  when  he  obtained  a 
commission  from  Cardinal  Borghese  to  paint 
a  picture  for  his  gallery,  it  was  stipulated 
that  it  should  be  of  the  Caravaggio  school. 
Guido,  to  the  extreme  displeasure  of  Annibale, 
accepted  the  conditions ;  and  the  former  cold- 
ness between  the  master  and  the  pupil  was 
renewed.  Guido  accomplished  his  work,  and, 
without  violating  his  engagement,  evinced 
an  excellence  in  the  style  he  had  been  com- 
pelled to  adopt,  which  Caravaggio  could 
never  have  attained.  At  length,  Guido  be- 
came disgusted  with  his  employers,  a  cold- 


THE    CARACCI    SCHOOL.  241 

ness  still  existed  between  himself  and  Anni- 
bale.  Albani,  his  friend,  who  accompanied 
him,  stood  aloof,  and  Caravaggio,  the  furious 
Caravaggio,  loaded  him  with  calumnies.  He 
quitted  Rome  in  disgust,  leaving  works  be- 
hind which  have  blazoned  his  name  to  suc- 
ceeding ages  ;  among  them  his  painting  of 
the  Aurora,  which  has  been  so  beautifully 
engraved  by  Morghen.  For  eight  years, 
Annibale  continued  his  labors  in  the  Farnese 
palace  ;  during  the  time,  his  cousin  Lodovico 
visited  him,  meaning  to  assist  him  with  his 
advice,  and  even  executing  part  of  the  work 
himself.  Both  the  Caraccis  were  invited 
from  all  parts  of  Lombardy,  to  adorn  the 
churches  and  palaces  by  their  pictures ;  but 
their  home  was  Bologna,  and  to  that  they 
constantly  returned. 

Annibale's  work  was  at  length  accomplish- 
ed, and  he  now  only  waited  for  his  reward 
from  the  Cardinal,  to  whose  munificence  he 
had  trusted  without  stipulating  for  a  price. 

The  magnanimous  prelate  sent  him,  in 
return  for  eight  years  of  labor  taken  from  the 
best  part  of  his  life,  and  as  reward  for  his 
genius  and  for  the  sacrifice  he  had  made  in 
separating  himself  from  his  home  and  acad- 
emy, five  hundred  crowns  ! 
16 


242         THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL. 

When  Annibale  received  the  sum,  he  said 
not  a  word  ;  first  surprise,  and  then  probably 
contempt  and  indignation  deprived  him  of 
utterance.  He  immediately  quitted  Rome, 
and  returned  to  Bologna.  Again  the  brothers 
met ;  but  alas  !  not  as  formerly,  full  of  spirit, 
health  and  animation.  Disappointment  and 
a  sense  of  injustice  had  damped  the  ardor  of 
Annibale,  and  Agostino  was  sinking  gradually 
under  the  wasting  attack  of  pulmonary  com- 
plaints. His  pencil  was  wholly  thrown  aside, 
and  music  and  poetry  were  his  principal  oc- 
cupations. There  was  no  necessity  now  for 
Lodovico  to  preach  patience  and  forbearance  ; 
Heaven  itself  had  given  the  lesson.  It  was 
no  longer  optional  with  them  whether  to  re- 
main together,  or  live  apart ;  the  summons 
had  arrived  and  the  ties  of  brotherhood  were 
to  be  rent  asunder.  How  inconceivable  now 
appeared  the  alienation,  that  had  at  times 
existed  between  them  !  How  wholly  cause- 
less !  "  Would  to  God,"  exclaimed  Anni- 
bale, "  we  had  lived  together  as  if  the  next 
hour  were  to  be  our  last ;  but  the  lesson 
comes  too  late  !  " 

"  O  not  too  late,"  replied  Agostino,  "  we 
have  met,  we  have  exchanged  forgiveness, 
and  heaven  is  merciful !     Lay  its  lesson  well 


I 


THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL.         243 

to  heart,  Annibale  ;  for  I  trust  thou  hast  many 
years  to  live.  To  thy  care  I  bequeath  my 
son.  And  now,  no  more  of  the  past.  Give 
me  my  hite,  brother.  Do  you  remember  the 
song  of  the  Swiss  wanderer,  which  we  heard 
when  we  were  boys  ?  "  Then  with  a  faint 
prehide,  he  sung  the  following  lines  :  — 

The  faint  voice  of  the  minstrel  is  heard  no  more, 

And  sorrow  has  dimmed  his  eye  ; 
His  last  song  of  love  and  of  woman  is  o'er, 

And  his  harp  is  hung  on  high. 

Near  the  moss-clad  tower  he  loves  to  recline, 

While  visions  are  thronging  fast; 
Of  the  far  distant  ages  a  glorious  line. 

Where  his  name  and  fame  shall  last. 

As  he  leaned  to  the  breeze  his  feverish  brow, 

The  sound  of  sweet  music  came, — 
First  like  whispers  of  love  all  tender  and  low, 

Then  loud  like  the  trump  of  fame. 

What  angel  choir  salutes  his  ear, 
And  soothes  the  weary  man  to  rest  1 
For  sure  no  mortal  sound  is  near, 
With  accents  so  divinely  blest. 
Hark !  't  is  his  muse,  his  early  choice : 
Soft  as  the  breezes  from  the  west. 
On  the  hung  harp  she  breathes  her  voice, 
And  lulls  her  ancient  bard  to  rest. 
The  curtain  of  the  night  was  drawTi, 

And  ere  the  morn 
Her  ancient  bard  was  lulled  to  rest. 


244  THE    CARACCI    SCHOOL. 

The  notes  of  Agostino  grew  fainter  as  the 
last  words  trembled  on  his  tongue. 

"  I  believe  I  often  dream,"  said  he,  laying 
aside  the  lute,  "  when  I  appear  to  wake. 
Think  you  there  are  things  more  strange 
in  the  world  to  come  than  in  the  present  ? 
It  is  just  six  years  since  our  father  died,  you 
know,  Annibale.  Can  it  be  that  he  is  some- 
times near  me  ? " 

Annibale  shook  his  head. 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  said  Agostino,  tena- 
ciously. 

"  We  know  not  the  mysteries  of  earth  or  air, 
We  know  not  the  spells  that  are  round  us." 

That  night  Lodovico  and  Annibale  watch- 
ed by  his  bed-side,  and  in  the  morning,  when 
the  sun  arose,  he  was  no  more. 

Deeply  as  Annibale  felt  the  death  of  his 
brother,  he  understood  the  duty  of  self-con- 
trol, and  immediately  adopted  the  son  of 
Agostino  as  his  own.  He  had  a  younger 
brother  remaining,  who  had  separated  himself 
from  the  family,  and  set  up  a  school  in  oppo- 
sition to  Lodovico's,  inscribing  upon  the 
door,  "  This  is  the  true  school  of  the 
Caracci."  * 

•  Lanzi. 


THE    CARACCI    SCHOOL. 


245 


The  inhabitants  of  Bologna  were  so  indig- 
nant at  this  assumption,  from  one  to  whom 
Lodovico  had  been  a  benefactor,  that  he  was 
compelled  to  leave,  and  went  to  Rome.  He 
was  at  first  well  received  as  being  the  broth- 
er of  Agostino  and  Annibale,  but  soon  for- 
feited the  favor  which  was  extended  to  him, 
and  died  at  the  early  age  of  twenty-seven. 

In  the  promising  talents  and  devoted  affec- 
tion of  the  young  Antonio,  son  of  Agostino, 
Amiibale  found  a  new  source  of  happiness. 
He  was  indefatigable  in  his  instructions,  and, 
as  he  considered  the  study  of  the  antique  at 
Rome  indispensable  to  forming  an  artist,  he 
determined  to  revisit  that  city,  with  his 
nephew.  As  the  young  Antonio  entered  the 
walls  of  the  Farnese  palace,  his  heart  swelled 
with  a  sense  of  the  injustice  which  had  been 
done  his  uncle.  Not  so  Annibale,  the  world 
with  its  praise  and  reproach  was  fast  receding 
from  his  view.  He  felt  that  his  days  were 
drawing  near  to  their  close.  The  same  dis- 
order which  shortened  his  brother's  life  was 
fast  undermining  his  own :  there  was  the 
rapid  pulse,  the  hectic  cheek,  and  laboring 
breath.  The  physicians  recommended  him 
to  try  the  air  of  Naples,  and  Antonio  earnest- 
ly joined  his  own  entreaties.     The  invalid 


246         THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL. 

consented  with  a  melancholy  smile.  A  situ- 
ation was  selected  for  him  by  his  nephew, 
which  overlooked  the  bay,  and  the  beautiful 
surrounding  country.  On  the  north,  gradu- 
ally arose  the  fertile  hills  extending  from  the 
shore  to  the  Campagna  Felice.  On  the  east, 
the  rich  plains  reaching  to  Mount  Vesuvius 
and  Portici.  On  the  west,  the  grotto  of 
Posilippo,  Virgil's  tomb,  and  the  fields  leading 
to  the  coast  of  Baia.  To  the  south,  was 
extended  before  him  the  noble  bay,  confined 
by  its  two  promontories  of  Misenum  and 
Minerva.  The  first  morning  after  Annibale's 
arrival,  he  walked  on  the  terrace,  and  felt 
refreshed  and  invigorated  in  this  land  of 
zephyrs  ;  the  sea  breezes  cooled  his  feverish 
and  hectic  cheek,  and  the  gales  wafted  to  his 
senses  the  perfume  of  the  Campagna  Felice. 
But  it  was  only  a  temporary  revived,  and  he 
grew  earnest  to  return  again  to  Rome.  He 
reached  it  by  short  stages,  and  there  breathed 
his  last.  He  was  buried  with  great  honors, 
and  Antonio  deposited  his  remains  near  the 
tomb  of  Raphael,  in  the  Church  of  the  Ro- 
tunda, the  ancient  Pantheon. 

There  are  melancholy  reflections  attached 
to  the  history  of  the  young  Antonio,  gifted 
as  he  was  with  genius  and  invention.     After 


THE    CARACCl    SCHOOL.  247 

the  death  of  his  uncle,  he  pursued  his  profes- 
sion and  painted  several  celebrated  pieces ; 
but  he  stood  alone  in  the  world,  scarcely- 
daring  to  bear  the  honored  name  of  his 
family.*  His  early  death  was  perhaps  a 
blessing  for  himself.  But,  had  he  lived,  he 
would  have  been  distinguished  among  artists. 

Lodovico  alone  now  remained  of  the 
family.  He  was  still  cheerful,  active  and 
beloved ;  with  less  of  genius  and  what  is 
called  talent,  than  either  of  the  others,  he 
had  been  the  founder  of  their  usefulness  and 
success.  His  first  care,  in  early  life,  was  to 
discipline  himself,  and  cultivate  benevolent 
and  kind  affections  towards  others.  In 
establishing  the  Academy,  his  motive  had 
been  the  public  good,  and  his  eminent  suc- 
cess was  the  reward  of  generous  and  exalted 
principle.  He  died  in  the  year  1618,  at  the 
age  of  sixty-three,  in  the  enjoyment  of  the 
highest  powers  of  his  mind. 

The  pursuits  of  the  three  Caracci,  Lodovi- 
co, Agostino,  and  Annibale,  were  so  entirely 
united,  and  all  so  happily  directed  to  com- 
mon objects,  that  it  has  been  difficult  to 
assign  to  each  a  separate  influence  in  the  arts. 
They   were    inadequately    compensated   by 

*  He  is  known  by  the  name  of  Gobbo. 


248         THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL. 

money  for  their  labors  ;  but  wealth  was  not 
their  aim :  all  of  them  died  in  narrow  cir- 
cumstances. It  is  no  slight  praise,  that  their 
school  stayed  the  progress  of  the  arts  decline, 
and  restored  their  true  principles. 

The  pupils  they  formed,  threw  a  lustre  on 
their  mode  of  teaching.  Domenichino  was 
one  of  the  most  distinguished.  Poussin  pro- 
nounced him  the  next  painter  to  Raphael ;  he 
had  the  art  of  depicting  human  passions  with 
something  of  the  same  power — joy,  grief, 
rage,  sorrow  and  fear.  He  painted  the  soul, 
delineated  the  life,  and  excited  in  the  bosom 
of  the  spectator  all  those  emotions  which  be- 
longed to  the  scene  represented.  It  is  this 
power  which  gives  to  painting  its  highest 
moral  effect,  makes  the  pure  and  holy  affec- 
tions, which  are  represented,  throw  a  sancti- 
fying influence  over  the  character  of  the  be- 
holder, —  vice  tell  its  own  hateful  story,  and 
impress  its  own  moral. 

There  appears  to  have  been  a  timidity,  a 
want  of  confidence  in  himself,  that  possibly 
arose  in  part  from  the  early  unkindness  of  his 
master.  The  influence  of  judicious  primary 
instruction  was  not  then  appreciated ;  it  re- 
mained for  the  Caracci  to  prove  that  the  law 
of  kindness  is  the  most  effectual  in  forming 


THE    CARACCI    SCHOOL. 


249 


the  mind  to  excellence.  Lodovico  said  of 
Domenichino,  "  that  his  worth  would  not  be 
appreciated  till  after  his  death."  The  saying 
proved  true.  He  afforded  one  of  the  many- 
examples  of  suffering  genius,  and  late  re- 
wards. During  his  life,  which  terminated 
at  Naples,  in  1648,  he  was  poor  and  abused. 
He  could  get  no  scholars,  and  was  often 
without  business.  Many  years  after  his 
death,  if  we  may  trust  the  relation  of  one 
of  the  books  with  which  the  Italian  traveller 
meets,  Poussin  was  employed  by  a  society  to 
paint  an  altar-piece  for  a  church,  and,  to  save 
the  expense  of  a  new  canvass,  an  old  picture 
was  hauled  out  from  the  garret,  and  given 
him  to  paint  on.  The  artist  began  to  rub 
the  dirt  off,  and  was  interested  in  the  com- 
position. It  was  the  celebrated  Communion 
of  St.  Jerome,  by  Domenichino,  which  is 
now  esteemed  by  some  the  best,  and  by 
most  the  second,  painting  in  the  world.  He 
hastened  to  his  employers,  and  told  them 
that  here  was  a  better  pictme  than  he  could 
make,  for  the  life  of  him,  and  begged  them 
to  have  it  taken  care  of.  And  so,  by  and  by, 
it  came  into  the  honorable  place  it  now  holds 
in  the  Vatican  Gallery  and  the  public  estima- 
tion.    This  story  argues  an  ignorance  of  the 


250         THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL. 

art,  which  is  hardly  credible  to  us ;  and 
the  author  is  not  able  to  quote  any  decisive 
authority  in  its  favor. 

Guido  Reni  was  an  illustration  of  the  false 
and  foolish  maxim  that  is  sometimes  applied 
to  infirmity  of  principle  :  his  cotemporaries 
said,  "  he  is  a  noble  fellow,  and  nobody's 
enemy  but  his  own."  But  the  man  who  de- 
grades himself,  injures  one  member  of  society 
at  least,  in  every  relation  he  bears  to  it.  His 
exquisite  taste,  his  affectionate  disposition,  his 
exalted  genius,  and  high  conception  of  the 
beautiful  and  sublime,  could  not  save  him 
from  the  baleful  effects  of  his  passion  for 
gaming.  Though,  in  his  best  productions, 
every  individual  figure,  however  minute, 
brought  him  one  hundred  Roman  crowns, 
the  lofty  power  of  his  pencil  was  sacrificed 
to  painting  hasty  and  cheap  pieces,  for  sup- 
plying immediate  pressure,  created  by  his 
losses.  He  died  at  Bologna,  after  having  re- 
duced himself  from  affluence  to  poverty,  by 
this  growing  infatuation,  at  the  age  of  sixty- 
six,  in  the  year  1640. 

Albani  was  the  early  friend  and  fellow- 
student  of  Guido  :  like  Coreggio  he  drew  his 
beautiful  images  from  the  pure  fount  of 
affection.     There  is  one  striking  difference, 


THE    CARACCI    SCHOOL. 


251 


however;  Coreggio  saw  in  his  wife  and 
childi-en,  Madonnas,  saints  and  angels  ;  the 
flame  of  earthly  love  was  ennobled  by  the 
divine.  Albani  saw  in  his  beautiful  partner, 
a  model  for  nymphs  and  Venuses,  and  in  his 
children  the  representatives  of  Loves  and 
Graces.  His  death  took  place  in  1660,  at 
the  age  of  eighty-two. 

Guercino  was  another  pupil  of  distinction  : 
his  designs  are  grand  and  natural,  but  want 
the  grace  of  Guido  and  Albani. 

Michelangelo  Caravaggio,  unlike  Guido, 
was  every  man's  enemy,  as  well  as  his  own ; 
impetuous  and  overbearing,  he  was  constantly 
engaged  in  quarrels.  Giuseppino  was  at  first 
his  warm  friend ;  but  when,  one  day,  he 
had  unfortunately  offended  him,  Caravaggio 
sprang  furiously  upon  him,  and  a  young  man 
present  attempting  to  interfere,  Caravaggio 
drew  his  sword  and  murdered  him  on  the 
spot.  He  was  obliged  to  make  his  escape 
from  justice,  and  finally,  by  the  interference 
of  influential  men,  he  obtained  a  pardon. 
He  immediately  returned  to  Rome,  and  chal- 
lenged Giuseppino,  who  replied,  "  that  a 
knight  could  not  draw  his  sword  on  an 
inferior." 

Caravaggio,  boiling  with  rage,  hastened  to 


252         THE  CARACCI  SCHOOL. 

Malta,  took  the  necessary  vows,  received  the 
order  of  knighthood,  and  came  back  to  force 
his  antagonist  to  fight.  The  evening  he 
arrived  at  Rome  he  sent  his  challenge  ;  but 
his  furious  and  ungovernable  temper  had 
turned  on  himself  its  fatal  power.  He  was 
seized  with  a  brain  fever,  and  when  an  ac- 
ceptance of  his  challenge  was  retiuned,  he 
lay  cold,  and  motionless,  in  the  arms  of 
death. 


RUBENS  AND  VANDYKE. 


"It  is  just  one  hundred  and  twenty  years 
to-day,"  said  a  young  artist  to  his  friend,  as 
he  stood  in  the  hall  of  St.  Mark,  at  Venice, 
contemplating  the  noble  works  of  Titian. 
"  Time,  the  destroyer,  has  here  stayed  his 
hand  ;  the  colors  are  as  vivid  and  as  fresh  as 
if  they  were  laid  on  but  yesterday.  Would 
that  my  old  friend  and  master,  Otho  Venius, 
were  here!  at  least  I  will  carry  back  to 
Antwerp  that  in  my  coloring,  which  shall 
prove  to  him  that  I  have  not  played  truant 
to  the  art." 

"  Just  one  hundred  and  twenty  years," 
repeated  he,  "  since  Titian  was  born.  Venice 
was  then  in  its  glory,  but  now  it  is  all  fall- 
ing ;  its  churches  and  palaces  are  crumbling 
to  dust,  its  commerce  interrupted.  The  re- 
public continually  harassed  by  the  Porte,  and 
obliged  to  call  on  foreign  aid  ;    depressed  by 


254  RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE. 

her  internal  despotism,  her  council  of  ten, 
and  state  Inquisitors,  her  decline,  though 
gradual,  is  sure  ;  yet  the  splendor  of  her  arts 
remain,  and  the  genius  of  Titian,  her  favorite 
son,  is  yet  in  the  bloom  and  brilliancy  of 
youth !  " 

Such  was  the  enthusiastic  exclamation  of 
Rubens,  as  he  contemplated  those  paintings 
which  had  brought  him  from  Antwerp.  How 
many  gifted  minds  spoke  to  him  from  the 
noble  works  which  were  before  him !  The 
three  Bellinis,  the  founders  of  the  Venetian 
school,  Giorgione,  Titian,  and  Tintoretto. 
Then  Paolo  Veronese,  who,  though  born  at 
Verona,  in  1537,  adopted  Venice  as  his  home, 
aiid  became  the  fellow-artist  of  Tintoretto, 
and  the  disciple  of  Titian.  Pordenone,  too, 
who  viewed  Titian  as  a  rival  and  an  enemy. 
Palma  the  young,  and  Palma  the  old,  born 
in  1548,  and  the  Bassanos,  who  died  near 
1627. 

All  these  were  present  to  the  eye  of  Ru- 
bens, their  genius  embodied  on  the  canvass 
in  the  hahs  of  St.  Mark.  "  These,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "  have  formed  the  Venetian  school, 
and  these  shall  be  my  study !  " 

From  this  time,  the  young  artist  might 
daily  be  seen  with  his  sheets  of  white  paper, 


RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE.  255 

and  his  pencil  in  his  hand.  A  few  strokes 
preserved  the  outline  which  his  memory 
filled  up;  and  by  an  intuitive  glance,  his 
genius  understood  and  appropriated  every 
signal  beauty. 

In  Venice  he  became  acquainted  with  the 
Archduke  Albert,  who  introduced  him  to  the 
Duke  of  Mantua,  whither  he  went  for  the 
pm'pose  of  studying  the  works  of  Julio 
Romano.  From  thence  he  proceeded  to 
Rome ;  here  Raphael  was  his  model,  and 
Michelangelo  his  wonder.  He  devoted  him- 
self to  painting  with  a  fervor  that  belongs 
only  to  genius ;  and  he  soon  proved  that 
whatever  he  gained  by  ancient  study,  the 
originality  of  his  own  conceptions  would  still 
remain  and  appear.  To  the  vivid  and  splen- 
did coloring  of  the  Venetian  school,  he  was 
perhaps  more  indebted  than  to  any  other 
model. 

The  affectionate  and  constant  intercourse, 
by  letters,  that  subsisted  between  Rubens 
and  his  mother,  made  his  long  residence  in 
Italy  one  of  pleasure.  At  Rome  he  was  em- 
ployed to  adorn,  by  his  paintings,  the  Church 
of  Santa  Croce,  and  also  the  "  Chicsa  Nova." 

Rubens  had  been  originally  destined  by 
his  mother  for  one  of  the  learned  professions. 


256  RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE, 

His  father  was  born  at  Antwerp,  and  held  the 
honorable  office  of  Counsellor  of  State. 
When  the  civil  wars  broke  out,  he  repaired 
to  Cologne,  where  his  son,  Peter  Paul  Rubens, 
was  born.  He  died  soon  after  his  return  to 
Antwerp,  and  left  his  property  much  dimin- 
ished from  losses  occasioned  by  the  civil 
war. 

The  mother  of  Rubens  put  him  early  to 
the  best  schools,  where  he  was  initiated  in 
learning,  and  discovered  a  taste  for  belles- 
lettres  ;  but  all  the  intervals  of  necessary 
study  were  devoted  to  drawing.  His  mother 
perceiving  it,  determined  to  indulge  his  incli- 
nation, and  placed  him  in  the  study  of  Van 
Noort. 

The  correct  taste  of  the  scholar  soon  led 
him  to  perceive  that  he  could  not  adopt  this 
artist's  style,  and  he  became  the  pupil  of 
Otho  Venius.  Similarity  of  thought  and  feel- 
ing united  them  closely,  and  it  Avas  with  true 
disinterestedness  that  the  master  urged  his 
pupil  to  quit  his  confined  circle,  and  repair  to 
Italy,  the  great  school  of  art. 

Time  flew  rapidly  with  Rubens,  while 
engaged  in  his  beloved  and  honorable  pur- 
suit ;  he  looked  forward  to  the  period  when 
he   might  return  to  Antwerp,  and  place  his 


RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE.  257 

mother  in  her  former  affluence.  Nearly 
seven  years  had  passed  since  he  took  leave  of 
her.  Of  late,  he  thought  her  letters  had 
been  less  cheerful :  she  spoke  of  her  declin- 
ing health,  of  her  earnest  hope  that  she 
might  live  to  embrace  him  once  more.  This 
hint  was  enough  for  his  affectionate  heart. 
He  immediately  broke  off  all  his  engage- 
ments, and  prepared  to  retiun.  Every  one 
knows,  what  impatience  is  created  when  one 
first  begins  to  contemplate  home,  after  a  long 
absence,  and  the  heart  is  turned  towards  it. 
"  Seven  years  absent !  "  wrote  Rubens  to  his 
mother,  "  how  is  it  possible  I  have  lived  so 
long  away  from  you  !  It  is  too  long  ;  hence- 
forth I  will  devote  myself  to  your  happiness. 
Antwerp  shall  be  my  future  residence.  I 
have  acquired  a  taste  for  horticulture ;  our 
little  garden  shall  be  enlarged  and  cultivated, 
and  our  home  will  be  a  paradise." 

What  are  human  anticipations  and  proj- 
ects !  the  day  before  he  was  to  quit  Rome, 
he  received  a  letter  informing  him  that  his 
mother  was  very  ill,  and  begging  him  to 
return  with  all  speed. 

With   breathless   haste,   he  huiTied   back, 
without  sleep  or  rest.     When  he  reached  the 
city,  he  dared  not  make  any  inquiries.     At 
17 


258  RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE. 

length  he  stood  before  the  paternal  mansion ; 
he  saw  the  gloomy  tiles  and  half  closed 
window-shutters.  It  Avas  the  Fall  of  the 
year,  the  leaves  were  dropping  from  the 
trees.  He  observed  people  going  in  and  out 
at  the  door  :  to  speak  was  impossible.  At 
length  he  rushed  in,  and  heard  the  appalling 
sentence,  "  Too  late,"  a  sentence  that  often 
strikes  desolation  to  the  human  heart.  His 
mother  had  expired  that  morning. 

Is  there  consolation  in  pressing  the  clay-  ' 
cold  lips  ?  the  marble  forehead  ?  In  contem- 
plating the  lifeless  form  that  once  contained 
the  noble  and  generous  spirit  ?  If  there  be, 
such  Rubens  had.  But,  in  truth,  for  the 
death  of  the  beloved,  earth  has  no  sufficient 
comfort.  The  soul  must  soar  to  a  better 
sphere,  and  realize  the  life  beyond. 

While  he  was  struggling  with  the  bit- 
terness of  sorrow,  he  met  with  Elizabeth 
Brants.  There  was  something  in  the  tone  of 
her  voice  which  infused  tranquillity  into  his 
mind  ;  and  affection  came  in  a  new  form  to 
assuage  his  loss.  She  was  the  "ladye  of 
his  love,"  and  afterwards  his  wife.  He  built 
a  magnificent  house  at  Antwerp,  with  a  saloon 
in  form  of  a  Rotunda,  which  he  ornamented 
and   enriched    with    antique   statues,   busts, 


RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE.  259 

vases  and  pictures,  by  the  most  celebrated 
painters.  Thus  surrounded  by  the  gems  of 
art,  he  devoted  himself  to  the  execution  of 
works  which  were  the  pride  of  his  native 
country,  and  caused  honors  and  wealth  to  be 
heaped  upon  him. 

There  were  those  found  who  could  not 
endure  the  splendor  of  his  success;  these 
calumniated.  There  were  others  who  tried 
to  draw  him  into  visionary  speculations.  A 
chemist  offered  him  a  share  of  his  laboratory, 
to  join  in  his  search  for  the  philosopher's 
stone.  He  carried  the  visionary  to  his  paint- 
ing-room, and  said,  "  The  offer  comes  too 
late.  You  see  I  have  found  out  the  art  of 
making  gold  by  my  palette  and  pencils." 

Rubens  was  now  at  the  height  of  j^rosper- 
ity  and  happiness,  a  dangerous  eminence,  and 
one  on  which  few  arc  permitted  to  rest.  A 
second  timis  his  heart  was  pierced  with  sor- 
row :  he  lost  his  young  wife  Elizabeth,  a 
few  years  after  their  union.  Deep  as  was 
his  sorrow,  he  had  yet  resolution  enough  to 
feel  the  necessity  of  exertion  :  he  left  the 
place  which  constantly  reminded  liim  of 
domestic  enjoyment,  the  memory  of  which 
^contrasted  so  sadly  with  the  present  silence 
and  solitude,  and  traveled  for  some  tiiiio  in 
Holland.     After   his   return,    he   received  a 


260  RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE. 

commission  from  Mary  de  Medici  of  France, 
to  adorn  the  palace  of  the  Luxembourg.  He 
executed  for  this  purpose  a  number  of  paint- 
ings at  Antwerp,  and  instructed  several  pupils 
in  his  art. 

At    this    time,    Rubens    devoted    himself 
wholly   to   painting,    and    scarcely    allowed 
himself  time  for  recreation.     He  considered 
it    one    of  the   most  effectual   means  of  in- 
struction, to  allow  his  pupils  to  observe  his 
method   of  using   his   paints.     He  therefore 
had  them  with  him  while  he  worked  on  his 
large    pictures.     Teniers,   Snyders,  Jordaens 
and  Vandyke,  were  among   his   pupils  —  all 
names    well    known.       On   a    certain    day, 
Rubens  wearily  threw  aside  his  brush,  and, 
charging  his  young  pupils  to  preserve  order 
and   industry,    left   them,   saying  he   should 
not    return    till    night.     For   a   short    time 
they  obeyed   the  injunction ;  but  when  was 
youth   divested   of  its   love   of    gaiety    and 
amusement  ?    Vandyke,  the  light-hearted,  the 
thoughtless  Vandyke,  was  the  first  to  break 
through  the  rules  the  master  prescribed.     He 
had  filled  his  pocket  with  nuts,  and  while  the 
young  students  were  engrossed  in    their  la- 
bors, they  were  pelted  with  showers  of  them. 
It  was   not   in   human   nature   silently   and 
unresistingly  to  bear  this  outrage  ;  the  nuts 


RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE. 


261 


were  sent  back  with  interest.  Vandyke 
sprang  over  his  bench,  and  in  a  moment  the 
sport  became  general.  Some  wrestled,  some 
pelted,  and  all  shouted.  At  length,  one 
whom  the  ring-leader  had  fairly  prostrated, 
by  a  sudden  movement,  escaped  and  took 
shelter  behind  the  easel  piece  upon  which 
Rubens  had  just  been  painting,  and  which 
was  nearly  completed.  Vandyke  with  a  loud 
shout  aimed  his  hat  at  the  boy  ;  the  hat 
rested  a  moment  on  the  top  of  the  easel,  and 
then  to  punish  the  boy's  roguery,  fell  upon 
the  picture  sweeping  after  it  the  breast  of 
one  of  the  Saints.*  Had  the  Saint  himself 
appeared  there  propria  persona,  and  thun- 
dered forth  anathemas,  the  effect  could  not 
have  been  greater.  Immediate  silence  fol- 
lowed ;  what  could  be  done  ?  The  master 
would  discard  them  all  ;  and  Vandyke  who 
was  as  feeling  as  he  was  thoughtless,  burst 
into  tears.  "  My  poor  mother,"  said  he, 
"  how  heavy  will  be  her  disappointment. 
She  will  not  reproach  me,  but  I  know  how 
she  will  look  ;  so  sad,  so  sorrowful,  she,  who 
is  such  a  lover  of  the  fine  arts  ;  f  and  now  I 

*  This  picture  was  the  famous  descent  from  the  cross. 

+  It  is  said  that  Vandyke's  mother  was  a  woman  of  un- 
common taste  in  the  arts,  and  had  wrought  some  beautiful 
historical  tapestries. 


262  RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE. 

shall  be  obliged  to  go  back  to  school,  and 
study  Latin  and  Greek  the  live-long  day." 
A  fresh  shower  of  tears  bedewed  the  boy's 
cheeks.  At  length,  with  the  versatility  of 
his  character,  he  started  up.  "  Boys,"  said 
he,  "  clear  away,  gather  up  the  chesnuts, 
put  the  benches  in  order,  and  place  every 
thing  as  Master  Rubens  left  it ;  leave  all  to 
me."  Every  thing  was  adjusted  while  Van 
was  examining  his  master's  brushes  and 
pallet.  A  few  moments  beheld  him  seated 
before  the  easel  in  the  attitude  of  Rubens, 
thoughtful,  serious  and  self-possessed.  "  Si- 
lence !  "  said  he,  "keep  to  your  work,  and 
do  not  speak  to  me."  His  fellow-students 
looked  aghast. 

After  busily  employing  himself  for  a  con- 
siderable period,  he  exclaimed,  "  now  come 
and  look."  The  saint  was  indeed  wonder- 
fully restored ;  the  boys  were  fully  decided 
that  Rubens  would  never  discover  that  any 
thing  had  been  done  to  it.  "  Let  us  keep 
our  own  counsel,"  said  they,  "  and  he  Avill 
not  find  it  out."  The  master  did  not  return 
till  late.  It  was  his  custom  to  be  at  his 
painting-room  in  the  morning,  before  the 
scholars  arrived.  When  they  came,  they 
found  him  there,  engaged  as  usual.     They 


RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE.  263 

took  their  places,  exchanging  looks  of  con- 
gratulation to  each  other,  for  now  they  felt 
secure.  Suddenly  he  exclaimed,  ''  Who  has 
dared  to  meddle  with  my  painting."  No  one 
spoke.  Again  he  asked  in  a  stern  voice  : 
still  there  was  a  profound  silence.  The 
German  Burshs  or  youth  are  early  initiated 
in  their  own  codes  of  honor,  and  scrupulous 
not  to  betray  a  brother  offender.  "  Very 
well,"  said  Rubens,  after  waiting  a  reason- 
able time  for  a  reply.  "  1  have  but  one 
course  to  pursue.  Since  you  do  not  choose 
to  designate  the  one  among  you,  I  must  dis- 
card you  all.  Q,uit  my  room."  Slowly  they 
arose  ;  in  a  moment  Vandyke  rushed  forward. 
"  Do  not  punish  them,"  said  he,  "  I  am  the 
offender  —  punish  me."  In  a  voice  inter- 
rupted by  sobs,  he  told  his  story.  "  Ah,  Sir," 
said  he,  "  I  am  a  most  unlucky  boy ;  I  al- 
ways loas ;  my  mother  has  said  so  a  thou- 
sand times.  After  you  left  us,  I.  grew  tired. 
I  had  my  pocket  full  of  nuts,  and  I  pelted 
the  other  boys ;  and  at  last,  sir,  I  threw  my 
hat  at  one  of  them ;  this  miserable  good-for- 
nothing  hat,"  displaying  it  daubed  with  paint 
and  crumpling  it  up,  "  it  hit  the  saint  full  in 
the  breast  ;  this  sir,  is  the  offender."  "  Who 
painted  the  picture  ?  "  said  Rubens,  trying  to 


264  RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE. 

preserve  his  gravity  ;  "  the  hat  did  not  paint 
it."  "  Alas  !  Sir,  no  ;  it  was  I !  indeed.  Sir, 
I  hoped,  as  the  Saints  are  merciful,  they 
would  take  pity  on  me.  I  beseech  you,  Sir, 
to  follow  their  example." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Rubens,  "  you  then  are 
the  ofifender  :  come  with  me."  He  preceded 
him  to  his  mother's  house,  and  ordered  Van- 
dyke to  relate  in  her  presence  the  circum- 
stance that  had  taken  place.  When  he  had 
concluded,  she  said,  "  Indeed,  Sir,  I  feel  that 
my  son's  offence  is  great,  but  J.  beseech  you  to 
attribute  it  to  its  right  cause,  boyish  levity." 

"Madam,"  replied  Rubens,  "my  present 
object  is  not  to  enter  complaints,  but  to  in- 
form you  that,  with  proper  culture,  your  son 
will  become  one  of  the  first  painters  of  the 
age  ;  the  manner  in  which  he  has  repaired 
the  accident  is  a  sufficient  proof." 

The  delight  of  the  mother  may  be  imag- 
ined, but  Ruben's  generosity  did  not  stop  here  ; 
he  employed  Vandyke  in  finishing  several  of 
his  pieces  ;  and  when  he  considered  him  suf- 
ficiently educated  to  improve  by  travel,  sent 
him  to  his  own  school  of  instruction,  Venice, 
presenting  him  with  a  fine  dapple-grey  horse 
and  a  purse  of  pistoles. 

V^hen  Rubens  had  executed  the  commis- 


RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE. 


265 


sion  given  him  by  Mary  de  Medici,  wife  of 
Henry  IV,  he  repaired  to  Paris  to  arrange  his 
pictures  at  the  Luxembourg  palace,  and  there 
painted  two  more,  and  Hkewise  the  galleries, 
representing  passages  of  her  life. 

Here  he  became  acquainted  with  the  Duke 
of  Buckingham,  as  that  nobleman  was  on 
his  way  to  Madrid  with  Prince  Charles.  On 
his  return  to  Antwerp,  he  was  summoned  to 
the  presence  of  the  Infanta  Isabella,  who  had, 
through  Buckingham,  become  interested  in 
his  character.  She  thought  him  worthy  of  a 
political  mission  to  the  court  of  Madrid, 
where  he  was  most  graciously  received  by 
Philip. 

While  at  Madrid  he  painted  four  pictures 
for  the  convent  of  the  Carmelites,  and  a  fine 
portrait  of  the  king  on  horseback  with  many 
other  pictures  ;  for  these  extraordinary  pro- 
ductions he  was  richly  rewarded,  received 
the  honor  of  Knighthood,  and  was  presented 
with  the  golden  key. 

While  at  Spain,  Don  John,  Duke  of 
Briganza,  who  was  afterwards  king  of  Portu- 
gal, sent  and  invited  him  to  visit  him  at 
Villa  Vitiosa,  the  place  of  his  residence. 
Rubens,  perhaps,  might  at  this  time  have 
been   a  little   dazzled  with   his    uncommon 


266  RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE. 

elevation.  He  was  now  Sir  Paul,  and 
celebrated  all  over  Europe.  It  was  proper 
he  should  make  the  visit  as  one  person  of 
high  rank  visits  another.  His  preparations 
were  great  to  appear  in  a  becoming  style, 
and  not  to  shame  his  noble  host.  At  length 
the  morning  arrived,  and,  attended  by  a 
numerous  train  of  courteous  friends  and  hired 
attendants,  the  long  cavalcade  began  the 
journey.  When  not  far  distant  from  Villa 
Vitiosa,  Rubens  learnt  that  Don  John  had 
sent  an  embassy  to  meet  him.  Such  an 
honor  had  seldom  been  accorded  to  a  private 
gentleman,  and  Rubens  schooled  himself  to 
receive  it  with  suitable  humility  and  becom- 
ing dignity. 

He  put  up  at  a  little  distance  from  Villa 
Vitiosa,  waiting  the  arrival  of  the  embassy  ; 
finally,  it  came,  in  the  form  of  a  single  gentle- 
man, who  civilly  told  him  that  the  Duke,  his 
master,  had  been  obliged  to  leave  home  on 
business  that  could  not  be  dispensed  with, 
and  therefore  must  deny  himself  the  pleasure 
of  the  visit ;  but  as  he  had  probably  been  at 
some  extra  expense  in  coming  so  far,  he 
begged  him  to  accept  of  fifty  pistoles  as  a 
remuneration. 

Rubens  refused  the  pistoles,  and  could  not 


RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE.  267 

forebear  adding  that  he  had  "brought  two 
thousand  along  with  him,  which  he  had 
meant  to  spend  at  his  court,  dm-ing  the  fif- 
teen days  he  was  to  spend  there." 

The  truth  was,  that  when  Don  John  was 
informed  that  Rubens  was  coming  in  the 
style  of  a  Prince  to  see  him,  it  was  wholly 
foreign  to  his  plan  :  he  was  a  great  lover  of 
painting,  and  had  wished  to  sec  him  as  an 
artist.  He  therefore  determined  to  prevent 
the  visit. 

The  second  marriage  of  Rubens,  with 
Helena  Forman,  was,  no  less  than  the  first, 
one  of  afl"ection  ;  she  had  great  beauty  and 
became  a  model  for  his  pencil. 

The  Infanta  Isabella  was  so  much  satisfied 
with  his  mission  in  Spain,  that  she  sent  him 
to  England,  to  sound  the  disposition  of  the 
government  on  the  subject  of  a  peace. 

Rubens  disclosed  in  this  embassy  his 
diplomatic  talents :  he  first  appeared  there  in 
his  character  of  artist,  and  insensibly  won 
upon  the  confidence  of  Charles.  The  King 
requested  him  to  paint  the  ceiling  of  the 
banqueting-house  at  Whitehall.  While  lie 
was  employed  upon  it,  Charles  frequently 
visited  him,  and  criticized  the  work.  Ru- 
bens very  naturally  introducing  the  subject, 


268  RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE. 

and  finding,  from  the  tenor  of  his  conversa- 
tion, that  he  was  by  no  means  averse  to  a 
peace  with  Spain,  at  length  produced  his 
credentials.  The  King  received  his  mission 
most  graciously,  and  Rubens  returned  to  the 
Netherlands  crowned  with  honors  and  suc- 
cess. 

He  had  passed  his  fiftieth  year,  when  his 
health  began  to  fail,  and  he  was  attacked 
with  a  severe  fit  of  the  gout.  Those  who 
have  witnessed  the  irritation  attendant  upon 
that  disorder,  will  appreciate  the  perfect  har- 
mony and  gentleness  that  existed  between 
Rubens  and  his  wife.  With  untiring  tender- 
ness she  devoted  herself  to  him,  and  was 
ingenious  in  devising  alleviations  and  com- 
forts. "  I  have  a  picture  to  show  you,"  said 
she,  one  day,  "  when  you  can  bear  the  light, 
and  feel  disposed  to  see  it.  I  will  also  intro- 
duce the  artist  to  you." 

It  was  several  days  before  Rubens  asked 
to  see  the  painting  ;  at  length  he  reminded 
his  wife  of  her  promise.  She  produced  it. 
It  was  an  exquisite  portrait  of  herself. 

"  Excellent !  most  excellent !  "  exclaimed 
the  husband. 

Helen  opened  the  door,  and  in  a  moment 
Vandyke,  his  early  pupil,  was  by  his  side. 


RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE.  269 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Rubens,  ''I  need  not 
ask  who  was  the  artist ;  Vandyke  alone  could 
produce  such  a  portrait.  Dost  thou  not  re- 
member, when  I  first  advised  thee  to  adhere 
to  portrait-painting,  some  of  thy  friends  ac- 
cused me  of  envy,  and  a  desire  to  narrow  thy 
walk?  but  I  foresaw  that  in  that  thou 
wouldst  excel  all  others." 

Vandyke  remained  but  a  short  time  at  Ant- 
werp ;  he  went  to  France  by  the  invitation  of 
Richelieu,  and  thence  to  England.  His  suc- 
cess in  portrait-painting  secured  him  wealth 
and  fame.  King  Charles  sat  to  him  repeat- 
edly, had  him  lodged  at  Black-friars  at  the 
royal  charge,  and  conferred  on  him  the  honor 
of  Knighthood,  and  an  annuity  for  life. 

He  wrought  only  for  the  higher  classes, 
as  his  prices  at  that  time  were  beyond  those 
of  other  artists. 

There  are  some  singular  points  of  resem- 
blance in  the  lives  of  Rubens  and  of  Van- 
dyke. Both  pursued  much  the  same  course 
of  instruction — both  were  knighted  as  the 
reward  of  genius  —  and  both  were  doomed 
to  suffer  under  that  scourge  of  luxury,  tJie 
gout.  Vandyke,  like  Rubens,  was  solicited 
by  visionaries  to  join  in  the  search  for  the 
philosopher's  stone  ;  but,  nrzlike  his  master,  he 


270  RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE. 

could  not  resist  the  temptation,  and  much  of 
his  well-earned  wealth  was  sacrificed  in  the 
fruitless  pursuit. 

Vandyke  did  not  marry  till  late  in  life  :  his 
wife  was  Maria  Ruthven.  Soon  after  his 
marriage,  he  went  again  to  France,  hoping  to 
be  employed  in  the  gallery  of  the  Louvre  ; 
but  here  he  found  the  commission  had  been 
given  to  Poussin.  The  two  artists  met 
amicably.  "  I  have  come  too  late,"  said 
Vandyke.  "  Would  you  had  come  sooner  !  " 
replied  Poussin,  "  I  am  not  made  to  contend 
with  the  mediocrity  of  Voiret's  genius,  nor 
with  the  bustle  and  hurry  of  Paris :  I  pine 
for  the  solitude  of  the  country,  for  the  vine- 
covered  hills  of  the  Campagna  of  Rome  ;  and 
would  rather  return  to  my  humble  home  in 
Normandy  where  I  was  born,  than  live  in 
the  noise  and  tumult  of  this  city." 

Poussin  proved  the  sincerity  of  his  asser- 
tion by  finally  quitting  France  and  returning 
to  italy. 

Once  more  Vandyke  repaired  to  England, 
and  engaged  in  painting  portraits  Avith  re- 
newed zeal ;  but  he  no  longer  sought  fame, 
but  money ;  and  the  rapidity  with  which  he 
dismissed  them  from  his  easel,  was  unfavora- 
ble to  their  excellence.    His  wife  brought  him 


RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE.  271 

beauty  and  rank,  but  no  wealth;  and  he 
often  said,  "  Formerly  I  painted  for  a  future 
life,  now  I  paint  for  the  present." 

A  friend  found  fault  with  a  certain  head 
he  had  been  executing,  and  said  it  was  un- 
worthy of  his  high  reputation. 

"  True,"  replied  Vandyke,  "  but  I  paint 
now  for  my  kitchen." 

Letters  occasionally  passed  between  Ru- 
bens and  Vandyke  ;  the  former  never  lost 
the  affectionate  interest  he  had  early  taken  in 
his  pupil ;  and  hearing  that  he  had  engaged 
in  the  idle  pursuit  of  tlie  philosopher's  stone, 
he  wrote  to  him  on  the  subject,  and  at  last 
convinced  him  of  his  folly. 

The  severe  attacks  of  Ruben's  disorder 
debilitated  his  frame,  yet  he  continued  paint- 
ing at  his  easel  almost  to  the  last ;  and, 
amidst  suffering  and  sickness,  never  failed  in 
giving  the  energy  of  intellect  to  his  pic- 
tures. He  died  at  -the  age  of  sixty-three,  in 
the  year  1640,  leaving  great  wealth.  The 
pomp  and  circumstance  of  funeral  rites  can 
only  be  of  consequence,  as  showing  the  esti- 
mation in  which  a  departed  citizen  is  licld. 
Public  funeral  honors  were  awarded,  and 
men  of  every  rank  were  eager  to  manifest 
their  respect  to  his  memory.     He  was  buried 


272  RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE. 

in  the  Church  of  St.  James,  at  Antwerp, 
under  the  ahar  of  his  private  chapel,  which 
was  decorated  with  one  of  his  own  noble 
pictures.* 

Yandyke  was  in  England  at  the  time  of 
Rubens'  death,  and  heard  of  it  with  the 
deepest  emotion  of  sorrow.  Though  fre- 
quently solicited  to  visit  France,  he  uniform- 
ly refused.  His  marriage  with  the  daughter 
of  the  Earl  of  Gowry,  by  making  him  the 
associate  of  nobles,  led  him  to  emulate  their 
style  of  living,  and  assume  a  stateliness  of 
manner  far  less  becoming  than  his  naturally 
courteous  and  Avell-bred  deportment.  He 
kept  a  splendid  table,  numerous  servants,  and 
an  elegant  equipage.  As  he  was  not  success- 
ful in  his  search  for  the  philosopher's  stone, 
this  extravagant  and  ostentatious  manner  of 
living  frequently  occasioned  embarrassment 
in  his  affairs  ;  whenever  this  occurred,  he  ap- 
plied himself  closely  to  his  easel,  which,  like 
RubenS)  he  found  was  the  most  effectual 
method  of  making  gold.  It  may  seem 
strange  that  a  man  so  accomplished  and  so 

*  In  Cologne,  near  St.  Peter's  Church,  the  house  is  stand- 
ing, in  which  the  parents  of  Rubens  dwelt  when  they  fled 
from  Antwerp  during  the  war.  In  this  house  the  artist  was 
born. 


RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE.        -  273 

well  acquainted  with  the  world  as  Vandyke, 
could  be  drawn  into  the  visionary  schemes  of 
needy  adventurers  ;  but  it  was  one  of  the 
follies  of  the  day.  Cowley,  then  a  modern 
poet,  thus  alludes  to  it,  in  his  ode  "  On  the 
reign  of  our  gracious  King  Charles." 

"  Where,  dreaming  chemics !  is  your  pain  and  cost  1 
How  is  your  oil,  how  is  your  labor  lost ! 

Our  Charles,  blest  alchemist !  though  strange, 
Believe  it,  ye  in  future  limes,  did  change 
The  iron  age  of  old 
Into  an  age  of  gold." 

Vandyke's  portraits  were  so  highly  prized 
as  to  command  almost  any  sum.  But  the 
one  most  valued  by  himself,  was  a  full  length 
portrait  of  Rubens,  dressed  in  black.  The 
scholar  has  happily  given  the  character  of 
the  master  in  this  splendid  picture.  A 
character  which,  unlike  Vandyke's,  had  no 
dark  spot.  Though  transplanted  from  the 
shades  of  private  life  to  the  courts  of  Kings, 
and  the  palaces  of  Princes,  he  still  retained 
his  independence,  sincerity,  and  benevolence. 
"  More  than  once,"  said  Vandyke,  "  he  has 
been  my  guai-dian  angel."  The  high  con- 
ceptions of  his  excellence  inspired  the  pupil's 
pencil. 

One  of  Vandyke's  most  celebrated  pictures 
18 


^74  RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE. 

was  painted  at  the  request  of  a  fair  one, 
whose  charms  enthralled  him  on  his  first 
leaving  his  native  conntry.  He  saw  her 
dressed  in  the  costume  of  a  village  maiden,  at 
Savelthem,  and,  instead  of  proceeding,  as  Ru- 
bens had  advised  him,  immediately  to  Italy, 
remained  there  several  months. 

The  subject  suggested  was  St.  Martin 
dividing  his  cloak  with  the  beggar.  "  The 
youth,"  she  said,  ''  was  the  son  of  a  military 
tribune,  and  compelled  by  his  father  to  bear 
arms,  notwithstanding  his  great  repugnance 
to  a  martial  life  —  his  early  habits  being  those 
of  seclusion,  meditation,  and  alms-giving,  his 
food  and  garments  being  frequently  shared 
with  the  hungry  and  the  naked.  To  set 
himself  in  opposition  to  his  father's  com- 
mands, was  violating  a  duty  ;  to  go  forth  as 
a  warrior,  violating  his  own  principles  :  what 
could  he  do  ?  Just  what  he  did :  he  perse- 
cuted his  patron  saint,  day  and  night,  for 
counsel  and  direction  ;  but  no  aid  could  he 
obtain.  The  saint  did  not  seem  inclined  to 
raise  a  finger  in  his  behalf,  and  as  the  father 
insisted,  Martin  yielded,  and,  at  the  age  of 
seventeen,  clad  in  glittering  armor,  his  hel- 
met loaded  with  waving  plumes,  his  cloak 
thrown    over    his    shoulders,    mounted   the 


RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE.  275 

noble  charger  provided  for  him,  and  proceed- 
ed to  the  gate  of  Amiens.  There  he  met 
several  half-naked,  miserable  beggars.  Poor 
Martin  was  wholly  overcome  by  compassion, 
and  immediately  threw  half  of  his  cloak 
over  the  most  destitute  of  them.  Good 
deeds  are  seldom  so  promptly  rewarded  as  in 
the  present  instance.  The  beggar  turned 
out  to  be  the  patron  saint  himself,  who  so 
moved  the  heart  of  the  father,  as  to  induce 
him  to  relinquish  the  warlike  education  of 
his  son,  and  in  a  few  days  he  permitted  him 
to  be  baptized  as  St.  Martin,  giving  him  the 
liberty  of  devoting  his  whole  life  to  fasting 
and  penance." 

Vandyke's  imagination  kindled  as  he  heard 
the  story  from  ruby  lips,  and  he  immediately 
set  about  the  picture.  To  add  to  the  value 
of  the  donation,  he  drew  the  saint  from  his 
own  likeness,  and  his  horse  from  the  one 
presented  to  him  by  Rubens. 

But  while  he  was  residing  at  the  village 
of  Savelthem,  where  was  the  education  his 
noble  friend  had  planned  for  him  ?  He 
was  at  length  roused  from  his  lethargy  by  a 
letter  from  Rubens,  imploring  him  to  break 
from  the  fascinations  which  held  him,  and 
proceed  to  Venice.  Well  might  he  call  him 
his  guardian  angel ! 


276  RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE. 

The  love  which  Charles  possessed  for  the 
fine  arts  was  a  redeeming  part  of  his  char- 
acter. He  had  a  great  desire  that  Vandyke 
should  enrich  the  country  with  his  paintings ; 
and  set  an  example  to  his  subjects  by  liberal- 
ly rewarding  him ;  the  order  of  knighthood 
had  been  conferred  upon  him,  and  king  and 
nobles  united  in  paying  him  honor. 

Henrietta,  the  wife  of  Charles,  sat  to  him 
for  her  portrait.  She  possessed  but  little 
beauty  of  face,  but  her  hands  were  remarka- 
bly handsome  ;  and  she  observed  to  him  that 
he  paid  uncommon  attention  to  them,  and 
neglected  her  face.  It  was  an  embarrassing 
accusation.  But  he  readily  replied,  "  Ah, 
madam,  it  is  from  those  beautiful  hands  I  am 
to  receive  my  recompense." 

He  went  to  Antwerp  to  introduce  his  wife 
to  his  friends,  and,  shortly  after  their  return, 
they  were  blest  with  the  birth  of  a  daughter  ; 
but  his  joy  was  of  short  continuance  ;  he  was 
attacked  by  a  complication  of  disorders,  and 
his  death  seemed  inevitable.  The  king  ex- 
pressed the  utmost  sympathy  for  his  melan- 
choly situation,  and  offered  a  reward  of  three 
hundred  guineas  to  his  physician,  if  he  should 
preserve  the  life  of  the  artist ;  but  he  was 
beyond  the  reach  of  medicine,  and  died  in 


RUBENS    AND    VANDYKE.  277 

1641,  at  the  age  of  forty-two — just  one  year 
after  the  death  of  Rubens. 

Though  born  in  Antwerp,  he  is  usually 
ranked  among  the  English  artists,  England 
encouraged,  rewarded,  and  honored  him. 
He  was  buried  in  St.  Paul's  cathedral,  and 
£in  epitaph  inscribed  on  his  monument, 
written  by  Cowley  ;  this  was  destroyed  with 
the  church,  in  the  conflagration  of  1666. 


CLAUDE  GELEE. 


Among  all  the  celebrated  artists  in  Lor- 
raine, no  one  could  compare  with  Pierre 
Veroni.  Tradition  has  not  brought  down  to 
us  actual  sketches  of  his  Grecian  Temples, 
his  Chinese  Pagodas,  his  peerless  Madonnas, 
his  Angels  with  new  fledged  wings.  But, 
what  need  we  of  tradition,  when  the  spirit, 
the  promethean  fire  has  been  transmitted 
from  age  to  age  ?  How  many  useful  inven- 
tions have  been  lost,  while  his  still  flourish ! 
It  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  no  specimens 
of  his  sculpture  have  been  preserved.  The 
imitations  of  the  present  day  are  no  doubt 
far  inferior  to  the  original ;  but,  alas,  like  all 
human  inventions  they  have  crumbled  into 
dust.  Certain  it  is,  that  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  not  an  entertainment  could  be  given 
in  Lorraine  without  the  aid  of  Pierre;  his 
pyramids  were  the  ornaments  of  rich   and 


CLAUDE    GELEE. 


279 


costly  tables,  and  rose  high  in  the  centre, 
amidst  Etruscan,  golden  vases,  and  urns 
studded  with  precious  stones,  and  sparkling 
with  wine,  that  might  have  rivalled  that 
which  was  enriched  with  the  pearl  of  Cleo- 
patra. The  simple  and  beautiful  ornaments 
of  Pierre  were  always  the  principal  objects 
of  attention.  We  speak  not  of  their  intrinsic 
value,  because  history  on  this  subject  is  silent, 
and  we  wish  scrupulously  to  observe  the 
historical  rules.  It  is  evident,  however,  that 
they  possessed  a  value  beyond  mere  appear- 
ance. 

Homer  in  his  Iliad  has  given  earthly  im- 
mortality to  Daedalus  by  the  mere  record  of 
his  name  ;  though  Pausanias  asserts  that  his 
sculpture  was  rude  and  uncomely.  Pierre 
was  not  fortunate  enough  to  find  a  Homer, 
and  therefore  his  name  lives  only  in  these 
humble  records.  This  may  not  be  thought 
so  wonderful,  when  it  is  considered  that,  after 
all,  our  celebrated  artist,  to  whom  luxiury 
paid  daily  homage  —  to  whose  piazza  with 
its  colonnades  and  fountains,  age  and  youth 
resorted,  to  gaze  on  the  beautiful  landscape 
around,  with  its  golden  clouds,  its  shadowy 
tints  and  far-famed  aerial  softness  —  that 
after  all,  Pierre  Veroni,  who,  as  his  name  in- 


280  CLAUDE    GELEE. 

dicates,  united  Gallic  luxury  with  Italian  re- 
finement, must  be  handed  down  to  posterity, 
not  as  Pierre  le  Grand,  but  Pierre  the  Pastry- 
cook. Assuredly  he  was  the  most  distin- 
guished in  his  profession,  and  we  think  it 
would  not  be  diiRcult  to  prove  that  he  was 
the  original  inventor  of  those  luxuries  which 
have  blessed  even  our  new  world.  For 
instance,  the  pate  de  foie  gras,  which  so  in- 
geniously brings  the  barbarity  of  early  ages 
to  aid  the  cultivated  taste  of  the  modern  — 
the  original  pate  d'Ortolans,  of  which  some 
hero  of  romance  exclaims,  "  let  me  die  eating 
Ortolans  !  "  —  the  pate  a  la  Perigord  and 
even  the  celebrated  Charlotte  Russe,  —  we 
believe  might  be  traced  to  our  master  of  the 
art.  Upon  the  excellence  and  variety  of  his 
Brignets  we  have  not  time  to  enlarge ;  nor 
is  it  necessary.  We  will  only  add,  enough 
has  come  down  to  us  to  prove  that  Pierre's 
philosophy  taught  him,  "  his  dishes  were 
nothing,  unless  tasted  in  the  moment  of  pro- 
jection," and  that  "a  soup  was  spoiled  if 
done  a  bubble  too  much." 

Pierre  was  one  evening  seated  in  his 
piazza,  enjoying  the  coolness  of  the  western 
breeze,  when  a  pale,  emaciated  man  entered, 
leading  a  boy  by  the  hand.     He  approached 


CLAUDE    GELEE.  281 

the  mighty  master  with  a  low  bow,  expres- 
sive of  his  high  respect.  Nothing  could 
afford  a  greater  contrast  than  the  two,  Pierre 
was  magnificent  in  his  size,  and  gave  evi- 
dence that  his  inventions  had  benefited  him- 
self more  than  others.  He  sat  in  his  well- 
cushioned  bergere,  his  brocaded  robe  de 
chambre  carelessly  thrown  back,  his  snowy 
vest  confined  by  one  pearl  button,  and  his 
good-humored  florid  face  gently  tiu:ned  up- 
ward to  enjoy  the  cool. 

"Most  noble  master  Pierre,"  said  the  thin 
man,  with  a  trembling  voice,  "  I  have  come 
to  solicit  your  favor.  I  have  three  sons,  who 
are  apprenticed  to  different  trades  ;  but  I  have 
no  way  of  providing  for  the  youngest,  that  I 
lead  by  the  hand.  We  are  suffering  from 
famine !  mighty  Pierre,  take  my  poor  boy 
into  your  service  —  listen  to  my  petition,  and 
the  gratitude  of  a  family  will  be  your  re- 
ward." 

The  gastronomic  hero  was  propitiated  by 
this  humble  address  ;  he  received  it  gracious- 
ly, and  consented  to  initiate  the  boy  into  the 
mysteries  of  his  art. 

From  this  time  young  Gelee  became  his 
pupil ;  but  Pierre  found  that  he  had  made  a 
promise   he   could  not   perform ;   there  was 


282  CLAUDE    GELEE. 

no  initiating  the  boy.  It  soon  became 
evident  that  the  whole  science  of  pastry 
united  with  confectionary  revolved  before 
him  without  awakening  the  slightest  emo- 
tion ;  tarts,  and  cream-cakes,  so  attractive  to 
youth,  even  in  our  intellectual  times,  he  re- 
garded with  indifference.  Poor  Gelee  !  his 
master  was  fully  convinced  that  he  was 
moon-struck,  and  he  dated  the  time  from  an 
eventful  evening,  on  which  he  was  ordered 
to  carry  a  perigord  pie  to  a  grand  entertain- 
ment ;  on  Avhich  occasion  both  Gelee  and  the 
pie  were  missing ;  and  after  a  long  search  he 
was  found,  seated  on  the  pastry,  gazing  at 
the  clouds  as  they  passed  over  the  moon,  and 
watching  its  light  reflected  in  the  water. 

All  this  the  good-natured  Pierre  forgave, 
and  worried  along  with  him  for  two  whole 
years ;  at  the  end  of  which  time  he  sum- 
moned the  old  Gelee,  and  mildly  told  him 
that  it  was  not  possible  for  his  son  to  learn 
his  art  —  at  the  same  time  advising  the  father 
not  to  be  discouraged,  since  he  might  answer 
very  well  for  one  of  the  learned  professions, 
though  he  had  not  the  talents  requisite  for 
becoming  a  pastry-cook. 

The  father  had  no  means  of  promoting  his 
son  to  any  profession,  and  poor  little  Gelee 


CLAUDE  GELEE, 


283 


was  bound  out  as  a  "  hewer  of  wood  and 
drawer  of  water,"  for  another  year.  But  his 
dehcate  health  rendered  him  unfit  for  such 
hard  service  ;  and  as  some  of  his  young  com- 
panions were  going  to  Rome,  he  obtained  his^ 
father's  permission  to  accompany  them,  and 
once  more  seek  employment  in  the  gas- 
tronomic art. 

The  father  returned  him  a  few  of  the 
pence  he  had  so  hardly  earned,  gave  him 
much  advice,  a  fervent  blessing,  and  he  took 
his  leave. 

We  pass  over  the  weary  foot-travel,  weary 
to  most  people  though  not  to  him,  in  which 
his  very  soul  seemed  to  have  burst  from 
bondage,  and  he  could  now  gaze  to  his  heart's 
content,  without  defrauding  any  task-master. 
He  watched  the  vine-covered  hills  till  they 
faded  in  the  distance ;  for  the  first  time  he 
felt  the  value  of  existence,  and  an  indistinct 
perception  that  it  was  happiness  to  he. 

When  he  arrived  at  Rome,  he  seemed  like 
one  paralyzed  ;  instead  of  applying  to  some 
distinguished  pastry-cook,  as  he  was  well 
entitled  to  do,  having  been  taught  by  the 
celebrated  Master  Pierre  Veroni,  he  took  his 
seat  regularly  every  morning  on  one  of  the 
fallen  monuments  of  antiquity,  and  apparent- 


284  CLAUDE    GELEE. 

ly  forgot  himself  to  stone.  When  actually 
oppressed  by  hunger,  he  swallowed  a  hand- 
ful of  macaroni  from  the  nearest  vender.  At 
length  his  pence  were  all  gone,  and  he  began 
to  awake  from  this  dreamy  state  of  existence. 
He  then  applied  to  several  pastry-cooks  for 
employment ;  but  Gelee  had  never  cultivated 
the  graces  —  he  was  awkward  in  his  man- 
ners, and  could  speak  only  his  own  provincial 
language,  all  unlike  the  sweet  idiom  of  the 
Italians.  History  tells  us  that  "  he  wander- 
ed from  door  to  door,  and  no  one  would  em- 
ploy him  ;  and,  notwithstanding  his  practical 
knowledge  of  baking  pies,  he  was  in  danger 
of  starvation."  At  length  he  was  reduced  to 
actual  famine,  and  the  very  sources  of  life 
seemed  to  be  drying  up,  for  want  of  nourish- 
ment. He  seated  himself  on  the  door-steps 
of  an  obscure  house,  and,  overcome  by  the 
sense  of  misery,  burst  into  tears. 

"  To  what  purpose,"  exclaimed  he,  "  was 
I  born  ?  the  world  is  fair  and  beautiful ;  it  is 
made  of  noble  materials ;  what  could  be 
more  lovely  than  my  own  Lorraine,  when 
the  setting  sun  shone  on  my  native  hills  ? 
Then  came  the  beautiful  repose  of  nature  — 
then  the  landscape  slept,  and  the  spirit  of  the 
Creator  overshadowed  all  —  sky,  water,  and 


CLAUDE    GELEE.  ^5 

green  fields  melted  into  each  other,  and 
became  blended  together  by  imperceptible 
gradations  —  all  seemed  enveloped  in  the 
shadowy  mantle  of  universal  love.  Yet  I, 
who  could  gaze  on  these  scenes  with  the 
consciousness  of  my  own  existence,  I  alone 
am  an  outcast !  I,  who  feel  that  I  have  some- 
thing within  me  beyond  all  this,  that  I  am 
connected,  by  mysterious  ties,  with  universal 
being  !  Is  it,  that  when  I  die,  I  am  to  be 
dissolved  into  these  beautiful  elements,  and 
become  a  part  of  them  ?  No,  this  cannot  be  ; 
for  then  I  should  lose  my  very  consciousness, 
and  I  mia;ht  as  well  have  been  created  in  the 
first  place  a  tree  or  a  stone.  There  is  some- 
thing in  my  nature  yet  unrevealed  to  me, 
something  I  have  not  yet  attained.  Perhaps 
it  is  only  after  death  that  my  faculties  are  to 
unfold.  Yes,  it  must  be  so  ;  this  world  is  not 
my  home,  I  was  not  made  for  it.  Father  in 
heaven,  take  me  to  thyself!  " 

"  Who  is  it  that  speaks  so  mournfully  ?  " 
said  a  soft  silver  voice,  from  behind  a  lattice 
near  him. 

He  started  —  the  lan2;uage  was  that  of  his 
own  native  province.  ''  Wait  yet  a  little," 
continued  the  voice,  "  and  my  good  uncle 
Agostino  will  come  to  thee." 


286  CLAUDE    GELEE. 

In  a  few  moments  a  venerable  man  stood 
before  him.  "  Tell  me  thy  distress,  poor 
youth,"  said  he,  speaking  in  Gelee's  native 
tongue. 

For  the  first  time  since  he  had  entered  the 
immortal  city,  he  could  pour  forth  his  sor- 
rows and  be  understood.  What  a  tide  of 
strong  emotion  came  rushing  upon  his  heart, 
as  he  told  his  simple  tale. 

Agostino  listened  with  benevolent  sym- 
pathy. 

''  Our  blessed  lady,  the  gracious  mother  of 
the  afflicted,"  said  he,  "  has  directed  thee  to 
my  door.  I  am  in  want  of  a  domestic  ;  thou 
shalt  assist  my  niece  in  her  household  occu- 
pations, in  preparing  our  daily  meals,  and  at 
other  times  I  will  employ  thee  to  grind  my 
paints  and  clean  my  pallet  and  pencils." 

Most  thankfully  did  Gelee  enter  upon  his 
new  office.  From  this  time  he  was  one  of 
the  household. 

Was  it  the  voice,  the  speaking  glance  of 
Agostino's  niece,  the  gentle  Calista,  that  first 
awoke  the  germ  of  genius  in  the  mind  of 
the  youth  ?  Was  it  not  there  from  infancy, 
fostered  by  that  divine  love  Avhich  shed  such 
resplendent  beauty  among  his  native  hills  ? 
Does  not  the  Creator  watch  over  the  noblest 


CLAUDE    GELEE.  287 

part  of  his  works,  the  thinking,  reasoning 
mind  ?  The  young  Gelee  had  been  gradual- 
ly conducted  to  this  period ;  suffering  and 
solitude  had  been  agents  in  the  mighty  pro- 
cess ;  even  abstinence  had  sharpened  his 
spiritual  perceptions,  and  now  the  spark  of 
intellect  burst  into  a  flame.  He  performed 
cheerfully  the  menial  labors  assigned  him  ; 
but  sometimes,  when  it  became  his  duty  to 
clean  his  master's  pallet  and  brushes,  he  en- 
treated that  he  might  use  them.  The  good 
Agostino  smilingly  assented,  and  furnished 
him  with  implements  ;  he  was  pleased  to  see 
that  his  beloved  art  could  awaken  sympathy 
even  in  Claude  Gelee. 

Affostino  Trasso  had  received  orders  from 
the  Duke  of  Lorraine  to  furnish  him  with 
two  paintings  for  his  gallery.  The  artist 
rather  afl'ected  the  style  of  Michelangelo  ;  but 
what  was  grand  and  sublime  in  that  mighty 
master,  became  stiff  and  cold  in  the  hands  of 
Agostino.  One  picture,  however,  was  com- 
pleted and  sent  to  his  patron,  who  returned  a 
liberal  recompense. 

In  the  mean  time  the  young  Gelee  con- 
tinued secretly  at  work.  Calista  was  his 
only  confidant,  and  she  assumed  most  wil- 
lingly a  double  portion  of  household  labors, 


288  CLAUDE    GELEE. 

that  her  companion  might  drink  at  the  foun- 
tain of  dehght  which  had  so  lately  opened 
to  him.  At  length  his  picture  was  com- 
pleted, and,  after  placing  it  in  a  favorable 
light,  and  shading  it  with  the  mantilla  of 
Calista,  who  assisted  in  the  arrangement, 
Agostino  was  invited  to  view  it. 

What  was  the  astonishment  of  the  artist ! 
he  almost  doubted  whether  it  was  a  represen- 
tation on  canvass,  or  whether  nature  had 
started  forth,  living  and  breathing.  Could 
this  be  the  work  of  his  household  servant,  or 
had  some  mighty  magician  touched  the  can- 
vass with  his  wand  ? 

Great  as  was  Gelee's  triumph,  Calista's 
was  still  more  exquisite  ;  her  heart  swelled 
almost  to  bursting,  when  she  perceived  the 
effect  the  picture  produced  upon  her  uncle ; 
her  eyes  were  suffused  with  tears,  her  cheeks 
tinged  with  the  roseate  hue  of  morning,  a 
radiant  smile  played  round  her  mouth,  while 
her  lips,  gently  parted,  seemed  about  to  pour 
forth  the  language  of  inspiration. 

Once  more  Claude  seized  the  pencil.  A 
sketch  was  completed  ;  but  it  never  was  ex- 
hibited—  it  became  the  companion  of  his 
solitary  hours.  It  hung  opposite  his  couch, 
in  the  little  attic  ;  the  beautiful  eyes  looking 


CLAUDE    GELEE.  289 

down  upon  him,  the  head  inchned  forward, 
supported  by  its  swan-Uke  neck.  Morning, 
noon  and  evening  it  looked  upon  him,  the 
image  mingled  with  his  matin  hymn  and 
vesper  song.  Is  it  wonderful  that  it  became 
the  object  of  his  worship,  the  Madonna  of 
his  religion  ? 

Agostino  felt  the  beauty  of  Gelee's  land- 
scape. With  the  permission  of  the  youth, 
he  sent  it  to  the  Duke  of  Lorraine,  as  the 
production  of  a  self-taught  artist.  The  as- 
tonishment of  the  trio  was  great  when  a 
recompense  was  returned  far  exceeding  the 
amount  which  Agostino  had  received,  and 
also  orders  for  a  second  painting. 

Claude  was  no  longer  to  continue  the 
household  servant  of  Agostino.  Another  was 
procured  to  supply  his  place,  and  his  whole 
time  devoted  to  the  pencil. 

His  master,  with  an  honorable  generosity, 
endeavored  to  teach  him  the  rules  of  per- 
spective ;  but  he  was  an  impatient  pupil. 
His  was  a  beauty  which  he  perceived  and 

painted  intuitively. 

So  wholly  was  Claude  occupied  that  he 

seemed  to  live  in  a  region  of  his  own.     His 

labor   in   completing   the   second    landscape, 

entirely  engrossed   him.     Content  with  the 

19 


290  CLAUDE    GELEE. 

secret  worship  of  his  Madonna,  he  scarcely 
appeared  to  note  its  hving  representative, 
otherwise  he  would  have  perceived  that  the 
cheek  of  Calista  had  lost  its  bloom,  —  that 
the  sparkling  animation  of  her  eye  had  melted 
into  the  lustrous  softness  of  his  own  native 
sky,  —  that  the  form  so  round  and  graceful, 
was  losing  its  waving  outline,  —  that  the 
voice  which  fell  on  his  ear  in  strains  of  melody 
when  he  first  threw  himself  at  the  threshold, 
was  now  faint  and  broken,  and  scarcely 
exceeded  a  whisper.  All  this  was  unheeded 
by  the  artist ;  he  was  now  studying  to  blend 
the  bright  sunny  skies  of  Italy,  his  adopted 
home,  with  the  softness  that  first  impressed 
his  youthful  imagination,  and  to  throw  that 
aerial  veil  over  the  whole  which  gives  mys- 
terious meaning  to  inanimate  objects. 

Sometimes  Agostino  urged  him  to  intro- 
duce groups  of  peasants  into  the  front 
ground  ;  but  he  submitted  unwillingly,  and 
they  did  not  partake  of  the  inspiration  of  his 
pencil.  ''  Man,"  he  exclaimed,  "  has  made 
himself  inferior  to  the  glorious  world  he  in- 
habits ;  his  presence  destroys  the  harmony  of 
the  scene."  One  figure,  however,  was  intro- 
duced,—  a  fair  girl,  with  her  white  veil 
thrown  back  from  her  head,  and  her  golden 


CLAUDE    GELEE.  291 

locks  sporting  upon  her  neck,  as  they  were 
moved  by  the  passing  breeze.  She  stood 
on  a  gentle  eminence,  the  soft  effulgence 
of  the  setting  sun  casting  a  halo  round  her 
head.  Agostino  recognized  it  at  once,  as 
the  figure  of  his  own  niece,  his  ^'little 
Calista,"  as  he  always  called  her. 

"  It  was  an  excellent  likeness  once,''''  said 
he,  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"Yes,"  said  the  youth,  blushing;  "but 
it  wants  her  mind  to  animate  the  form. 
Still,  however,  it  is  in  keeping  with  the  pic- 
ture ;  it  has  the  same  perfection  that  belongs 
to  the  inanimate  creation.  I  have  looked  at 
it,  till  it  seemed  to  me  to  move.  See," 
continued  he,  "  the  foot  is  a  little  advanced  ; 
does  it  not  give  an  idea  of  her  light  step, 
which  scarcely  seems  to  bend  the  flowers 
upon  which  she  treads  ?  Then  observe  the 
quick  and  animated  turn  of  her  head :  we 
need  not  look  in  the  face,  to  read  the  beauty 
of  the  soul." 

"  Alas  !  "  said  Agostino,  "  such  things 
were;  but  the  remembrance  of  them  comes 
over  me  like  the  strains  of  the  ^olian  harp, 
mournful  and  low." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  exclaimed  Claude, 
throwing    down    his   brush.       The    deepest 
anguish  was  expressed  in  Agostino 's  counte- 


292  CLAUDE    GELEE. 

nance,  as  he  replied,  "  I  must  part  from  her  ; 
she  is  fast  fleeting  to  the  world  of  spirits ; 
in  a  few  months,  I  shall  be  alone  !  " 

"  Holy  Virgin !  "  exclaimed  the  youth, 
"  can  this  be  true  ?  " 

"  Too  true,"  replied  Agostino;  "  her  doom 
is  pronounced  by  the  most  experienced  in 
the  healing  art.  The  physicians  say  she  can 
continue  but  a  few  weeks  longer." 

"  And  you  have  kept  it  secret  from  me  ?  " 

''  You  were  too  much  engrossed  by  your 
pencil,"  rephed  Agostino,  "  to  think  of  my 
poor  girl.  Ah  !  "  continued  he,  with  a  mel- 
ancholy smile,  "  it  was  once  so  with  me. 
Painting  is  a  more  tyrannical  mistress  than 
Music ;  for  she  will  have  the  whole  ^  heart, 
but  her  tuneful  sister,  derives  part  of  her 
charm  from  answering  cadences." 

"Can  it  be,"  said  Claude,  "that  I  have 
been  thus  insensible,  thus  selfishly  engrossed  ? 
Let  me  fly  to  her.     Where  may  I  find  her  ?  " 

"  She  wanders  among  the  fir-trees,  in  the 
little  grove  behind  the  house." 

Claude  hastened  to  the  spot  :  he  saw  her 
at  a  distance.  Her  veil  was  thrown  back, 
her  step  feeble  and  slow :  even  then,  he 
thought  of  his  art ;  there  was  something  in 
her  shadowy  form  so  like  his  own  ideal,  that 
he  hesitated  to  destroy  the  illusion  by  ap- 


CLAUDE    GELEE.  293 

preaching  too  near.  It  was  only  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  he  was  by  her  side. 

She  smiled  and  extended  her  hand.  "  Have 
you  come  to  me  at  last  ?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Calista !  "  said  the  painter,  casting  him- 
self at  her  feet,  "  yes  thou  art  she  whom  I 
have  so  long  secretly  worshiped." 

Faint  and  exhausted,  she  sank  upon  the 
bank;  the  youth  knelt  by  her  side;  for  the 
first  time  their  hearts  communed.  Calista 
learned  how  deeply  she  had  been  beloved, 
that  while  she  looked  upon  the  menial  of  her 
uncle  as  too  bright  a  star  for  her  own  orbit, 
he  had  not  dared  to  lift  his  eyes  to  a  being 
so  radiant  with  beauty  and  goodness. 

"  These  are  precious  moments,"  exclaimed 
the  maiden,  "  but  they  are  fleeting.  I  am 
called  hence  ;  I  must  away." 

"  Live  for  me,  my  own  Calista,"  ex- 
claimed Claude,  "  thou  hast  been  my  anima- 
ting genius ;  live  to  lead  me  to  immortality, 
to  an  undying  name." 

''  That  may  not  be,"  replied  the  maiden  ; 
"  thy  own  genius  will  obtain  for  thee  an 
undying  name  ;  but  a  far  more  glorious  im- 
mortality awaits  thee." 

Other  landscapes  were  completed,  and  re- 
compense returned  for  beyond  expectation. 
Claude  was  now  no  longer  unknown :  he  was 


294  CLAUDE    GELEE. 

distinguished  by  Kings  and  Princes ;  and 
when  he  was  called  the  Italian  artist,  his  na- 
tive province  asserted  its  prior,  claims. 

Who  has  ever  seen  an  original  of  this 
painter,  without  feeling  that  he  possessed  a 
power  which  belongs  to  no  other  ?  There  is 
a  depth  in  his  skies,  which  leads  the  mind  far 
beyond  the  surface  ;  you  look  through  the 
mysterious  veil,  behind  the  golden  clouds, 
into  the  very  heaven  of  heavens. 

Where  was  the  stupid  apprentice  of  the 
pastry  cook  ?  Is  it  indeed  true,  as  has  been 
suggested,  that  his  faculties  were  obtuse  on 
every  subject  but  those  of  his  art  ?  Who 
that  has  any  comprehension  of  what  the 
divine  art  is,  will  believe  this  ?  The  obser- 
vation might  apply  to  a  mere  copyist ;  but  he 
to  whose  pencil  taste  and  imagination  bring 
their  tributary  stores,  —  he  who  can  give  life 
and  sentiment  to  canvass,  —  can  he  be  void 
of  every  other  talent  ? 

The  image  of  Calista  had  been  not  only 
his  beau  ideal,  but  incorporated  witii  his 
religious  worship  of  the  blessed  Virgin.  It 
had  filled  and  satisfied  his  heart :  he  had 
never  thought  it  possible  he  could  awaken  in 
her  emotions  corresponding  to  his  own ;  she 
was  the  beloved  niece  of  his  master,  and  he 
but  a  menial.     Now,  however,  the  veil  was 


CLAUDE    GELEE,  295 

removed,  and  he  found  himself  the  first  ob- 
ject of  her  affection.  Happy  Claude  !  what 
hast  thou  more  to  desire  ?  Love,  fortune  and 
genius  smile  upon  thee ;  yet  who  so  sad,  so 
heart-broken  ?  Happiness  is  not  made  for 
this  world.  Every  day  Calista  grew  weaker, 
her  voice  fainter  and  fainter  ;  she  resembled 
the  light  of  his  own  pictures,  fading  insensi- 
bly away  into  heaven. 

Italy  has  always  been  celebrated  for  its 
beautiful  twilights  :  it  was  on  one  of  those 
lovely  evenings,  tinged  with  glory,  when  the 
valley  was  already  sleeping  in  darkness,  while 
every  hill,  tower,  and  tree  was  illumined 
with  golden  light,  that  Calista  expressed  xi 
wish  to  see  a  landscape  Claude  had  nearly 
completed.  He  conducted  her  to  the  room  he 
had  hired  for  his  occupation,  which  was  but 
a  short  distance  from  the  dwelling.  It  was 
part  of  a  ruin  on  Monte  Pincio,  mantled  with 
evergreen.  Through  its  dilapidated  wall  the 
last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  entered  aslant, 
and  gave  to  the  picture  an  extraordinary  bril- 
liancy ;  it  was  precisely  the  light  which 
was  meant  to  be  represented.  Calista  gazed 
with  entluisiasm  —  her  whole  figure  became 
animated,  and  she  looked  like  a  being  of 
heaven  rather  than  earth.  "  My  friend," 
said    she,    holding   up  her   hand   which  the 


296  CLAUDE    GELEE. 

bright  light  rendered  almost  transparent,  "  I 
read  in  thy  picture  thy  immortality,  but 
not  the  immortality  for  which  thou  art  sigh- 
ing ;  the  time  will  come,  when  the  works  of 
genius  shall  crumble,  and  the  artist  be  for- 
gotten ;  but  the  spirit  which  executed  them 
will  live  forever."  As  she  spoke,  her  head 
sunk  upon  his  bosom  ;  several  moments 
passed  before  he  perceived  that  her  breath 
had  fled,  and  that  he  was  supporting  a  lifeless 
form.  "Yes,"  he  exclaimed,  "the  spirit 
will  live  forever !  " 

Claude  Gelee  was  born  in  1600,  and  died 
in  1668.  The  remainder  of  his  life  was  spent 
much  in  solitary  devotion  to  his  art.  In  this 
he  was  laborious,  frequently  repeating  the 
same  subject.  The  prediction  of  Calista  is 
partly  accomplished.  Many  of  liis  works  are 
decayed  ;  a  few  yet  remain.  Agostino  Trasso 
is  only  remembered  as  connected  with  his 
illustrious  pupil,  while  the  name  of  the  schol- 
ar is  still  familiar,  not  as  Claude  Gelee,  but 
claimed  by  his  native  province  as  Claude 
Lorraine. 


FINIS. 

J 


rniii- 


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